


Horrible Bosses: Louis XVI of France

by Keyblader41996



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Historical RPF
Genre: French Revolution, Gen, Historical Accuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keyblader41996/pseuds/Keyblader41996
Summary: The year is 1774, and Louis XVI has just stepped into power. France is forced to drag his inexperienced king through financial ruin and public discontent. As France the country falls apart, France the Nation desperately tries to keep his head. Historical!Hetalia, French Revolution fic.
Comments: 32
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-write of my other fic of the same name, Horrible Bosses: Louis XVI of France.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Though I use real people and events to inform my timeline and my research, I will be making minute narrative changes to seamlessly combine canon, headcanon, and real history. France is not a real person, and I have to put a person who was not real into real-life events. Please keep that in mind while you read. Specific inaccuracies are inevitable.
> 
> Thanks so much for coming back to this fic, and/or for clicking onto it for the first time! Leave comments if you have the time.  
> ~Keyblader

_**May 22, 1774** _

_**Le Château de Versailles** _

_**Galerie des Glaces**_

_"The King is dead! Louis XV is dead! Long live Louis XVI!"_

France had to ignore it.

He had to. He had to push through.

He had to ignore the way his stomach rolled and churned constantly, and the way his heart pounded rapid-fire against the base of his throat, and the way his headache beat at his temples with unrelenting power.

Especially today. He had things to do today. A country to run, a King to settle in.

France paced back and forth in front of a temporary dais that had briefly housed Louis XV's throne for a night before he fell ill, wringing his hands so tightly he was practically throttling them. On his fourth or fifth pass, his stomach did a little flip. France clamped a hand over his mouth, staving off a single violent dry-heave. His eyes watered and thick saliva coated his mouth, but luckily he managed to hold the nausea at bay, lowering his trembling hand and hissing a breath out through his teeth. He quickly looked around, hoping the small clusters of nameless nobles scattered around the Hall of Mirrors hadn’t noticed his momentary weakness. They seemed too involved in their own conversations to have noticed, and France was grateful, but his cheeks still heated up in embarrassment.

He had seen his fair share of monarchs in his long, immortal life. He should have been used to all of the symptoms by now: irritating chest pain that followed a monarch's death, and the sickness and anxiety that came with settling all of his affairs to make room for the Dauphin. The sadness and melancholia that came with losing a leader, regardless of whether or not they were loved. More anxiety over the new ruler. More sickness until they settled in.

"Calm down," he whispered to himself, sniffling thickly. "This is normal." He scrubbed his hands down his face. "It's always like this during a king-switch."

It was normal, but it usually went away in a few days. Four at the maximum. He was on day twelve.

National intuition told him that did not bode well for Louis XVI. It told him that public support for the new King was shakingly hopeful at best, and downright vehemently dreadful at worst. Still, France tried not to judge Louis too harshly, yet. France barely knew him, and a new king was always met with public skepticism. If he wanted to be fair to Louis (and in his optimism he was inclined to, despite not technically owing Louis anything yet) he could technically take part of the blame for his sickness off of his new King and put it on the grain riots that had been breaking out in some small villages around Paris recently. The gentle but ever-present pang of hunger that had bothered him even before Louis XV died told him that the harvests of the last few years had been abysmally poor. Grain supplies were growing increasingly short and the current stock in the storehouses was dwindling away day by day. The very first inklings of peoples' panic were touching on the edges of France's awareness, and he planned to bring it up to Louis as one of the first orders of business in their very first briefing together.

But that hunger pain was a small pain. Chronic. A constant backdrop to his other National problems. France had been enduring them for almost a whole year now. These new pains were acute and fresh, ringing National alarm bells in his head and his body that he couldn't silence. It was directly related to Louis, and he knew that. He hadn't spent centuries glancing over the shoulders of rulers to assume any different. A twenty year old king who was walking into the backlash of the Seven Years' War loss, the loss of countless French territories and foreign footholds, the War of Austrian Succession that Louis XV so carelessly joined, the entire country on the brink of debt, food shortages and riots, and general public discontent didn't hold France's vote of confidence.

Not that he couldn't be proved wrong - he certainly had been wrong before. His first impression of Charlemagne upon his earliest years as a Nation was that Charlamagne was too serious, too boring. Always bothering France to learn to read and write. Battle-obsessed, fighting for the sake of fighting just so that he wouldn't have time to play with him. Of course, he was a child back then, with a child's view of an adult like Charlemagne. He learned later, naturally, that it was all for infrastructure, expansion, and unification. Not war for the sake of war, or to spite him.

Sure, he was wrong before, and he was sure to be wrong again. But something stubborn jabbing him in the pit of his stomach that he was sure wasn't the pain of the riots left him feeling unconvinced that he would be wrong about Louis XVI.

The distant clang of the Versailles chapel bells ripped France out of his reverie with a start. 2:00 p.m. His crystalline blue eyes locked on the archway at the far end of the Hall of Mirrors for any signs of life. Louis should have arrived a half hour ago. After a few good minutes of staring he sighed in frustration, then exhaustion. His heeled shoes made loud, articulated clicks on the immaculate marble floor while he resumed his pacing. He adjusted the bottom of his silk, lavender vest, re-fluffed his gold cravat, and smoothed his skin-tight beige breeches.

He glared tiredly up at the ceiling, absently stroking the purple ribbon in his hair and twirling the ends of his curly blond ponytail around his finger. Luckily for him, the golden frames around the ceiling art grabbed his attention and held it for a while, allowing more time to pass. He stared at the canvases, at one particular painting: Louis XIV in Roman armor, on a platformed throne with France behind and beneath him in the shadows. An inferior position, but one that he was happy to occupy with _Le Roi Soleil_ at the helm. Louis XIV, an absolute force of nature, compelled France and everyone around him to bend to him like he was a god. It was well-deserved. Louis reigned alone, he reigned decisively, and brought about a peaceful and prosperous Golden Age that France flourished in. In the painting he was surrounded by Minerva, Mars, Glory, Tranquility and other Roman allegories, but no matter how much France stared it was impossible to make out every detail with the ceiling being so high. Even his sharpened senses as a Nation couldn't make out some of the finer details of the art, and it was one of the things he loved about Versailles. Everywhere he looked was something beautiful. Something artistic and colorful, something meaningful, with symbolic depth, and each time he looked he could find something new, some detail he had missed before. There was an entire world in the art on the ceiling he couldn't even see. He truly loved living there.

He guessed that by the time he finished staring another half hour passed. A whole hour late! This young man was not scoring very high marks already.

His stomach did another little flip.

_"Mon Dieu_ ," he breathed, massaging his temples against the continuous onslaught of his headache. He hoped Louis, whatever he was like, settled in quickly, if only for France's sake. Then France could actually get back to work at solving some of the issues he was facing and hopefully alleviate the majority of his discomforts. He had hopes that it would be easy for Louis XVI, since one of Louis XV's ministers disbanded the thirteen Parlement bodies across the entire country. Even if Louis XVI was an idiot, he wouldn't have to work too hard with France at his side and with simple systems in place around him.

France quickly scolded himself. _"Look at you, already planning for worst-case scenario! You haven't even met him, stupid!_ "

That wasn't entirely true. Louis had been born in Versailles. France interacted with him as a baby and small child on a few short occasions. If France recalled correctly, he had an odd obsession with locks and locksmithing. He liked taking them apart and putting them back together, tinkering with them, discovering how they worked, making keys. And he rarely talked. France hardly saw the boy at all, spending a majority of his time in Louis XV's offices and in his company. Shortly after, the Dauphin had been whisked away in Versailles for tutoring and the other menial aspects of a royal upbringing. Not like how it used to be in the Medieval Era when France himself would educate the Dauphin on politics, war, economics, the works.

As the National Representation of the Kingdom of France, only he and a select few ministers had the authority to advise Louis on any and every issue, but because his government was an absolute monarchy, he couldn't force his King to do anything. The King had ultimate power, and all final decisions rested with him. Louis could listen to France if he wanted to, or he could not. And if he did not, well, France was out of luck. Louis XV hadn't listened to him about a lot. He hadn't listened about the War of Austrian Succession. He hadn't listened to France about proper taxation. He hadn't listened to France when he told him to walk with more guards that one day since France had a bad feeling. He left France in lost-war-caused debt, social hatred of the tax systems in place, and he luckily survived that assassination attempt.

But at least, and he meant it sincerely, they had a blast together in Versailles.

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was over-thinking Louis XVI.

Maybe he needed a drink.

He shouldn't be so stressed. France had done this dozens of times, with each new monarch, and he should know better.

France's heels and shoe buckle resumed their cadence, a _click_ with a slight undertone of articulated _clack_ as he slowly paraded back and forth like a puppy that lost its master in a thick crowd. He sighed again and finally decided to take a seat - not on His Majesty's throne. That would be treasonous no matter how elegant and stylish it looked. Plus, he had yet to discover the nature of this new King's temperament. He instead opted for a posh gold settee placed dejectedly off to one side of the dais. The gold clashed pleasingly with the soft, quiet lavender of his vest and coat, and matched the gold embroidered trim on both. France paused and checked his image in one of the mirrors, readjusting and re-fluffing. He flicked the back of his long coat out from under him before sitting.

No sooner had he touched the cushion that the sounds of voices began to echo at the far end of the Hall of Mirrors. The King's Master of Ceremonies, whose name escaped France, entered first and pounded a tall rod off the floor, catching everyone's attention. " _Le_ _Roi_!" he cried, and most of the nobles snapped to attention, hurrying to line up along the walls to catch a glimpse of the King as he passed. France stayed where he was but jumped up as an entourage rounded the corner and strolled in. He was expecting to come face-to-face with King Louis Auguste XVI himself. Instead, he was met with a small crowd of young, energetic gentlemen all carrying on their own boisterous conversations that echoed through the Hall. Headed by one of Louis XVI's cousins, the soon-to-be Duc d'Orléans, the group paraded their way toward him.

France tried to keep his face a mask of neutral confidence despite his intense hatred for the future Duc d'Orléans. He was not a kind man, and he walked around with Louis and the other Princes of the Blood with his long, thin nose in the air and a haughty smirk on his face, like he knew something that no one else did. Like he had a secret, and he was winning the unspoken game that was being played at all times. Monsieur le Duc sported a light orange, almost peach-colored jacket despite the fact that blues and purples were in style - he still seemed to entertain the notion that he was the trend-setter at Court when others like France and Marie Antoinette unintentionally upstaged him at every opportunity. Embroidered with shimmering gold at the seams down the long front and around both jacket pockets was a mess of swirls and flowers. His entire vest was embroidered in the same way, simultaneously drawing France's eye and repelling his gaze with its complexity. His breeches were a white color that left him, overall, looking bland and paled out.

He caught France's eye and made a point of looking France from head to toe, his tiny, dainty lip curling in a grand display of disgust. France blinked innocently back at him, but placed the unspoken challenge there in his eyes, scheming to rile up Monsieur le Duc. He and France liked to play a little mean-spirited back-and-forth. At Versailles, the higher ranking noble was meant to address the lower, and under no circumstances was the lower noble to speak to the higher unless addressed. Some days, France was the lower noble, and the Duc d'Orléans would strut up to him and speak to him like his social blessing was a gift, and the only thing keeping France at Versailles. Some days, after France would spend particularly long days with Louis XV, he would speak to the Duc d'Orléans first, only to ruffle his feathers and make him seem like the inferior noble.

The Duc d'Orléans stopped in front of France and they stared each other down. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for France to drop into a bow first. France only smiled, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. They flared instead, and France hardened the light blue, placing the weight and depth and raw _power_ of hundreds of years of knowledge and experience behind them. The Duc faltered, confident smirk twitching down slightly, and he lowered himself into a bow first.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy," he said, and though Monsieur le Duc won the addressing game, France won the bowing game.

"Your Grace," France said back, bowing in reply. He stood on the tips of his toes and peered around the Duc d'Orléans, making an obvious show of being interested in addressing others in the room instead. He met eyes next with the Comte de Provence and the Comte d'Artois, Louis XVI's two younger brothers. Like Louis, France barely interacted with them, but they knew each other in passing, well enough to say hello to each other. The Comte d'Artois's large, round eyes brightened and he smiled warmly, waving from his hip so the others wouldn't see it.

Still no Louis XVI.

Then again, France wasn't sure if he'd even recognize him.

The Duc d'Orléans stepped aside and let France pass, and he bowed to Louis's brothers next. The older Comte de Provence kept to strict formality while the younger Comte d'Artois leaned in to France's ear and whispered, "Sorry we're so late. His Majesty was a little . . . nervous to see you again. He's very shy."

France remembered Louis XV's complaints about him. Barely speaking when directly spoken to when he was a child, forgoing conversation now for the hunt. France heard even worse rumors from the Court when he still stood next to Louis XV. He heard about the awkward royal couple that were too shy to consummate their ill-favored union. He knew the things that were whispered about the talented locksmith Louis who was too timid and embarrassed to "find the keyhole." Derogatory pamphlets and smear campaigns aimed at both Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette found their way from the streets of France and into Versailles, passed from hand to hand and laughed at behind closed doors. France had always just ignored the rumors and the whispers and the papers, strategically avoiding the realization that he may soon have a coward on his hands, and no heir.

The Comte d'Artois pulled away from France and gestured behind him to a young man. Over six feet tall and towering well over France's 5'9", if Louis would have stood up straight he would have looked kingly based on height alone. He lost a few inches because he kept his head down, eyes on the floor. His powdered wig held two white curls on either side of his full face, hiding a lightly brown natural color. He had thick lips and soft, padded wide eyes which added to his meek appearance. His eyes flicked up to France momentarily, through his lashes, and greyish-blue connected with vibrant, crystalline blue. Louis straightened his back, like he wanted to stand up tall to France, but a blush colored his face and ruined the effect. His eyes flicked elsewhere and he played at the lace trailing from his sleeves, a nervous tic.

" _Poor man_ ," France thought miserably before he could stop it, " _He'll be eaten alive if he's not the least bit confident_." He quickly banished the thought away.

" _Votre Majesté,_ " the Comte d'Artois said softly, as though afraid Louis would crumble under the force of his voice. "Allow me to re-introduce Monsieur François Bonnefoy."

France stepped up to the man, staring up into his face from the height difference. To his dismay, Louis's eyes slid away from him to the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face. France swallowed the uncertainty that rose in his throat like bile and still laid his best charm on thick. He flashed his most dazzling smile, delicately offering his hand, palm up, to Louis XVI.

_"Votre Majesté_ ," he purred smoothly, bowing his head.

France could sense Louis' red faced hesitation, and he raised only his eyes to see the King's body turn slightly. He glanced almost pleadingly at one of his brothers, who nodded. Louis finally pressed his soft hand in France's. The Nation dropped to a knee before him and kissed the crest of Bourbon House on his ring before releasing his hand.

"Do you remember me?" France asked without raising his head, taking the initiative in the conversation. He created a slight breach of etiquette by addressing the King unprompted, but most of the nobles were regulars to Versailles and knew of France’s elevated position. He looked up from his position on the floor and Louis's eyebrows furrowed as he nodded quickly. "Do you know who I am?" Another quick nod.

A soft voice squeezed itself from between Louis XVI's tiny lips, ". . . yrrmgrrdfathsdvs . . . " He trailed off at the end.

"Pardon?" France asked, craning his ear towards him to hear better. He lowered his eyes so as not to intimidate Louis further.

"You were my grandfather's advisor," Louis mumbled.

"Yes," France affirmed, looking up again to press his sincerity upon Louis. He said in a quieter voice, "And his grandfather before him, Louis XIV, _Le Roi Soleil_ , and his father Louis XIII, and as far back as Charlemagne that I can remember. I am to be your advisor as well." Louis looked distant, like he was worlds away from the conversation, thinking of something else. France's heart clenched, and he felt like an important chance to get Louis to trust and listen to him was slipping away from him. "Look at me," France commanded before he considered the social or political implications of ordering the King around. Louis's eyes widened as they slid back to meet his. Whatever it was that made the Nations immortal, allowed them to heal at an extremely advanced rate, and caused all kinds of unpleasant reactions when something bad happened to their countries, France put it there in his eyes. All of his power, all of his influence. "I am the National Representation of the Kingdom of France, at your service." Louis froze, captured in the depths of his Nation's throes. Something immediately changed in Louis's eyes. The timidness abated, a fierce flash of sharp wit and bookish intelligence shone in the soft greyish-blue, and France read the true resolve of Louis XVI: completely capable of the responsibility placed upon him, just indecisive and unsure. Louis believed himself to be unprepared and inadequate for the job. But at least he seemed like he cared, which was all France could ask for at the start of a king's reign. For the first time, his nausea abated and his headache seemed to uproot from his temples, growing smaller in his head. He breathed his first easy breath since Louis XV's death and slowly let it out.

France looked away first, and lowered his head, breaking the spell he placed over Louis. He wasn't supposed to get up, not until His Majesty told him to, so he respectfully stayed in his position, kneeling in front of the uncertain man before him.

Waiting, waiting, waiting awkwardly in the silence for someone to say something.

Finally, Louis asked in a stronger, firmer voice, "How shall I address you, Monsieur Bonnefoy, _la Person- Personnification Nationale du . . . Royaume de France_?" He said the words as though unsure. Like he believed France a bit, but not entirely, and was having trouble committing to believing him. "I have never addressed someone of your . . . title."

"It's not a title, _Votre Majesté_ ," France said, choosing his words very carefully. "The . . . nuances of my . . . existence and my . . . position at Court cannot be passed on the way an office can. Just Monsieur Bonnefoy is perfectly fine with me. When addressing me to others, Philippe IV called me Monsieur de la Couronne back in 1285 and I always liked that. Or Monsieur Bonnefoy, _Ministre du Roi_ , though that's not exactly my 'title' either, per se-"

"What social rank, or social position do you fill, Monsieur?" the Duc d'Orléans asked suddenly. He knew of France's position from before. Clearly he was trying to force France into diminishing his position in front of Louis. "With no title or land designation, you can't purport to lord over any duchy, any county, not even any march. You do not usurp the Princes of the Blood. or even a low noble with a title. So how do you pretend at advising the King?"

Of course he would try something like that. France smiled, knowing if he did not he would let his rage at the Duc show through. "My friend Gilbert put it best: let's just say that I am low enough in the social hierarchy to get yelled at, but high enough that I can yell back, Your Grace." France raised his eyes and stared hard at him again. Monsieur le Duc's mouth snapped shut, clearly not expecting that kind of reply and unable to come up with a suitable response.

"Do you enjoy hunting, Monsieur Bonnefoy?" Louis asked softly, shocking France out of his anger. He blinked, momentarily forgetting that the King of France was right in front of him and that was who he should've been addressing.

"Oh! Well . . . sure! About as much as anyone else. But I'm afraid my occupation affords me little time for some frivolities. I'm a man of the indoors at heart and I enjoy most indoor pursuits."

Louis nodded and frowned, like he had lost the only thing he wanted to talk to France about. Poor man, did he lack social tact as well? He scanned the floor, finally settling on, "That's an exquisite jacket."

"Thank you!" France said, and he flashed another dazzling smile, already trying to draw Louis in. The faster France made him comfortable, the faster things could get done. Fine. If Louis refused to talk, then France could keep the conversation going. "I have a bit of a passion for clothes. I know there's a court stylist here, but I have a tailor in Paris who makes all of my clothes. I've been patronizing their business for years. I'm not a fan of the powdered wigs, though, if I'm honest." Not that Louis asked. "I know it's the style of the upper class now and everybody wears one, but . . . " He hated those powdered wigs. They were itchy, they smelled after a while, they looked ridiculous - even to him! And if a fashion statement upset France, well, then it really had to be bad. He forced a chuckle, praying it sounded more natural than that. "Please, hide _this_ hair?" he asked, twirling a piece around his finger.

" . . . "

" . . . That was a joke," France quickly remedied.

"Ah. I see."

France paused, searching for the best way to wrap up the small talk to they could talk about something important. He looked into Louis's eyes one final time, but softened his own. "I can say, without a modicum of pretense, that I look forward to our partnership. There's still much to explain, but it's something we must discuss alone." From his kneeling position on the floor he let his arm elegantly curl a few times in front of him in a cordial motion of a bow.

Louis took a deep breath as well. His shoulders rose and fell, and France felt like he was thinking the same thing.

"Rise, Monsieur Bonnefoy de la Couronne." France did gratefully. "I think . . . " Louis began, " . . . We will go hunting," he announced softly, spinning on his heels. France noticed that even after their little exchange and what appeared to be a confidence boost, his eyes never ventured above anyone's vest buttons. He began to walk out of the room and the nobles lined up bowed as he passed.

France started and followed after him, protesting loudly, "Ah, wait! I was hoping to discuss what I mentioned earlier with you now-"

"His Majesty is very tired," the Duc d'Orléans said, shaking his head as though to scold France's excitement. "I'm sure after after a nice relaxing hunt to recharge, he'll be ready to discuss whatever you need, Monsieur Bonnefoy." He lightly pulled Louis's arm, and Louis offered no resistance.

France followed hastily and ran around the group, stopping directly in front of the King. " _Votre Majesté_ , this isn't something that should wait. I'd like to explain the . . . nuances of my position, and-"

Louis waved him aside. "We will talk later. Monsieur le Comte," he said, turning to another of his group, "Tell my wife I will be away for the rest of the day."

He left without another word to France.

France's first impression: timid. The rumors were correct. But Louis was also quietly observant, sharp, and he possessed the ability to analyze and critically think. He was just too afraid of a misstep. He probably just wanted to be well-liked.

Which was fine, he quickly tried to rationalize. " _They called Louis XV le Bien-Aimé, the well-liked! It'll be fine! You'll be fine!_ "

Was he the kind of ruler France needed in a time like this? Absolutely not.

France ran a nervous hand through his sunlight colored locks, messing up the ribbon and pulling out the ponytail.

It was going to be a bumpy ride. And France wasn't sure if his stomach could handle it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful, wonderful, AWESOME art was made by the tumblr user xxarcadewarlockxx!!!!! Check out their Ask Monsieur France blog, at the link here:
> 
> https://ask-monsieur-france.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you so, so much! <3 <3 <3 <3

**_May 25th, 1774  
_ ** **_Le Château de Versailles  
_ ** **_Galerie des Glaces_ **

France traveled through each drawing room of the King's State Apartments quickly, his suspicion aroused by the lack of people standing around, chatting and talking. Only a few low-ranking courtiers idled here or there, disinterested in whatever it was that had drawn all the others away. They paused in their conversations to watch him as he passed, but he didn't suspect malice, merely curiosity. France was known at Versailles by face, if not by name. People who had been there long enough knew he was someone special, and knew to defer to him. Still, France offered them charming and amiable smiles and nods if he made eye contact without stopping.

The number of people grew from room to room, and France knew he was drifting closer to some kind of to-do. The moment he turned the corner of the War Room into the Hall of Mirrors, he almost smacked into the backs of a crowd of people. They were lined up in an arc around the open doors immediately to the left that led to the King's Council Chamber, but none dared to enter the King's Private Apartments without an invitation. They stood shoulder to shoulder, all craning their necks to catch a glimpse of whatever excitement lay beyond. France gently made his way to the front, poking and prodding and jabbing soft elbows into the men, and offering playful winks and gentle excuses to the women. When he landed at the threshold, he saw footman after footman shuffling and jostling back and forth several rooms ahead, heading into Louis XVI's library and the adjacent rooms with boxes of varying sizes and heavinesses, and walking out empty handed.

France reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the casted bronze symbol of the Bourbon Crest he carried that Louis XIV gave him, that allowed him authorized access to the whole palace. He held it aloft so the nobles behind him would know he had access, and paraded into the Council Chamber. The guards standing on either side of the door to Louis's unofficial bedchamber moved to stop him, but stepped aside at the sight of the Crest. France moved through the bedchamber, and into the Clock Room, where the servants were traveling back and forth through the doorway to his left. He held up his hand and stopped a footman at the entrance, sporting a small box no larger than a book.

"What are you doing?"

"His Majesty has requested that his belongings be moved from his former Dauphin's Apartments into his current Private Apartments, Monsieur," he answered.

"His belongings?" France asked. "I've seen about ten boxes already. How many boxes does he have?"

"Mmmm," the footman answered, eyes roving above France's head as he counted them. "Probably Ninety? A hundred? Something like that, Monsieur."

"What's in them all?"

"I don't know, Monsieur."

The urge to peek twitched in France's fingers, and he quickly looked around him, checking if the nobles watching could see. He grabbed the footman's arm and tugged him back into the corner, out of view. The footman blinked at him in surprise, but France let the playful glint shine in his eyes and placed a coy smile on his face. The footman smiled slightly in return, already drawn in to France's charisma. France brushed a finger across his lips for silence. He opened the lid of the box a fraction of an inch and leaned down so he could peek inside.

The only thing inside was one single pocket watch. A beautiful pocket watch, with a gold casing and a fleur-de-lis etched in relief. Circling the casing was a ring of laurels that came together at the top near the release.

"It's a pocket watch," France whispered to the footman, who nodded excitedly, like France had shared a dark secret. "Let's check another one."

France and the footman waited at the door and France picked another box out that didn't look too terribly heavy. He stopped the man carrying it and didn't bother with the secrecy, prying the lid open and peering inside. There were six pocket watches in the box, all wrapped in velvet to keep them protected. France closed the lid with a _snap_ and waved the man along, and stopped one more servant, this one with a larger box. Inside were more watches, about twenty.

"Geez, how many watches does Louis have?" France asked. He remembered that Louis liked them, but he didn't realize they were important enough to him to have a collection. He tried one more box, this one the largest of those he stopped, and inside was full, nearly to the brim, with stacked keys and padlocks. It looked like possibly hundreds of locks were in the box.

France withdrew, allowing the man to pass him. He followed after him into Louis XVI's library and found his King standing at the center of the room and dressed in a plain frock coat and tan breeches, back straight with his arms behind his back, overseeing the move. Open boxes and wrappings lay strewn about him while the servants and footmen unpacked their contents and placed them in the direction that Louis pointed them to, either scurrying into the next rooms or placing them on display in the library.

France stopped off to the side of the doorway so he'd be out of the way and looked around at the decorations that were being installed. Most of the things in the library were model ships. Made of wood and of all different sizes, some were as small as a toy, and some had to be carried in by three or four men and propped up on special stands, the hulls almost as wide as France's head. Placed in cabinets and on shelves, everywhere France looked was a different kind of ship. Galleys, frigates, dinghys, and ships of the line in minute detail.

"Wooooow!" he said, forgetting all of the protocol he was supposed to maintain. France missed Louis's reaction to him, if Louis had a reaction at all. He immediately inspected the work of one of the larger ones. A ship of the line, the three main masts stretched upwards, taller than he was. All the main sails were unfurled, with the others still rolled up, displaying the intricate riggings attached to the sides of the ship. The details were so accurate that France could see the texture of the tiny ropes, and the little pulleys that looked as though they would actually work if he tried them. The guns on the decks poked out of the sides, ready to fire, and the wood panels on the decks had blemishes and stains, painted to look like real wood. The outside of the ship was painted an immaculate blue with gold accents and France marveled at the accuracy of the designs. The ship was an artistic masterpiece. He checked the back of the ship for the nameplate.

"This is . . . _The Bourbon_? The First Class _Bourbon_ , that Louis XIV launched?" he asked, pointing to it. Louis watched him carefully, as though ready to yell in the event that France touched it.

"Yes."

"I remember the launch of this ship," he told him. "This looks _exactly_ like it!"

"Thank you," Louis said simply. "I'm surprised you knew exactly which model of the _Bourbon_ it was. Most don't."

France moved along to the next one, a smaller model. "And - hey - this one's the _Superb_! I was on this ship when it was captured by the British Royal Navy in 1710. England threw me overboard." Louis chuckled once, and France looked up, smiling back at him. "These are amazing!"

"Thank you. I'm very proud of that one in particular. It took me a long while to complete."

"Hold on. You _made_ these?" France asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Louis's face lit up, excited to talk about them. But then he hesitated and turned red, a blush covering his entire face. His eyebrows furrowed and he looked down at his shoes, grabbing at the lace trailing from his sleeves.

"What?" France asked, and his heart twinged. It hurt him that Louis could be embarrassed about a real talent that he had, and it hurt him that Louis didn't trust him enough yet to feel like he could talk about it with him. " _Votre Majesté_ , these are beautiful!"

Louis didn't answer for a moment, running the lace between his fingers. He took a breath and seemed to gather himself, then said, "You're not mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad about such beautiful work? My King is an artist!" he said, pride lifting his tone. He clasped his hands under his chin, already more excited than he could say that Louis was on track to continue the Bourbon line's patronage of the arts.

Louis smiled at the compliment and France's approval gave him visible relief. His shoulders relaxed and he looked up though his lashes at France. "Ever since I was a child, my father and grandfather both wanted me to abandon making them. They also wanted me to abandon the locks and locksmithing, too. And the watches. They said none of them were 'kingly' hobbies and they wouldn't serve me well." He grew timid again, looking back down at his shoes. "I wanted to make every single ship in _Le Roi Soleil_ 's navy. They said my interest in it was . . . too specific."

"I disagree entirely," France said, and Louis looked up at him in surprise. "Okay," he admitted, waving dismissively. " _Maybe_ building model ships won't directly help you in State matters. But so what? Hobbies are just that - hobbies! It's important to have something you can do to relax. You can't be all work, and no play." This was an important opportunity to learn something about Louis. France jumped on the chance. "What else do you like to do? Besides building the ships, and making locks, and collecting watches?"

"Well I love the hunt. It's definitely my favorite pastime. And navigation. I _love_ navigation, and mathematics. I'm fascinated by anything to do with maritime pursuits. Ever since I was a child, I studied the movements of the tides, and ship designs so I could create these models, and I love making maps and charting, and I even know military maneuvers and flag signals. Come see these," Louis said, turning and walking back out towards the Hall of Mirrors. France followed, and Louis called over his shoulder, "Continue to unpack my belongings. Place all the watches and locks in my private chamber, and keep as many ships in the library as you can!" He led France out and paused in what France called the 'Corner Room', overlooking both the Marble Courtyard on one face, and the Royal Courtyard on the other. The room was simply furnished with an elaborate wooden desk. Louis led France to it and gestured to a mess of maps that lay strewn around it. "I love navigation so much that I personally plotted the courses of several of my grandfather's flagships as they made their campaigns. This one is . . . " Louis said, sliding one out from under the pile. France quickly pressed the rest into the desk so they wouldn't fall. " . . . _Bretagne_ , which he launched in 1766. And I also did _Ville de Paris_ , 1764."

"Wow," France said again, staring at the maps and sorting through them. "These are perfect, Louis - _Votre Majesté_ ," France quickly amended. Even though he felt like he was making headway, he didn't want to seem too eager to befriend Louis. If he became defensive, it would be a simple matter to shut France out of any official business.

Louis chose not to address the slip of his tongue. "I even accounted for the . . . the tacking - which are changes in direction to continue sailing into the wind." Louis hesitated, and France knew he was using purposefully simple language as though talking to a layperson. He was already so used to not being able to share the depths of his passions with others. "And also, at each navigation point I calculated the speed of the currents." He pointed to a piece of paper he had fastened to the map. France stared at the numbers wishing he had cared enough to pay attention when he trained in nautical affairs so he could engage with Louis about it. Louis took his silence as displeasure. "Is it . . . strange? That I do this?" He gestured to the maps. "No one else is this interested in these kinds of things. My grandfather's disapproval hurt me deeply."

It seemed like an oddly personal thing to say, or maybe it was simply Louis's manner of speaking. Maybe candor was a quality of his. Either way, France decided not to let this opportunity pass. "No, I don't think it's weird at all! All of my kings had their thing. This one is yours!"

"Like what?" Louis asked. "What did your . . . other kings like to do?"

"Well . . . Louis XIV, _Le Roi Soleil_ , loved ballet. He used to practice for hours a day when he had the free time. And he used to put on performances for the whole of Versailles to watch! You know he actually founded the _Academie Française_ for dance, right? He tried to teach me, but I wasn't very good." France spread his arms and dropped into a terrible plié, then tried to twirl in a pirouette. He lost his balance and quickly caught himself on the desk. "Oops. I never quite got it right. He lost patience with me and stopped trying. Oh, and then Philip IV? He loved fighting with the Pope and killing Templars for sport." Louis smiled, letting out a hearty laugh, but France was only half-kidding. "Louis VI got me into gambling and playing dice for a while - _that_ was fun!"

"You talk about them a lot. The Sun King, and Philip, " Louis said. "I can tell you liked them.

"I did. They were my greatest rulers." Louis's lips pressed together and his smile faltered for a split second, the mood in the room darkening. France noticed the gesture, going to Louis's defense. "I know you feel underprepared." Louis startled, shocked that France guessed exactly what he had been thinking. "I could tell from the moment I looked into your eyes three days ago," France continued. "Remember that connection we had?" he asked, and Louis nodded. France placed as much sincerity as he could muster into his eyes, hoping it would give Louis the boost he needed. "But you're smart - _very_ smart! You're detailed, and attentive. You apply your analytical mind to the State and to finances and to foreign affairs and everything, and you can be great, too! I can be great! And I'll use my knowledge and history to help you."

"How do you help me, Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

France paused, choosing the correct words. The kind of language that properly described the timeless magic and beauty of who he was and what he did. He elegantly flicked his blond ponytail over his shoulder and lifted one eyebrow, drawing out Louis's suspense as he waited for an answer. France walked around the desk and sat, crossing his legs. He rested his elbow on the desk and pressed his fist into his cheek, looking for the most poetic language he could think of. "I am _France_ , in every sense that I can be France. I am the land on the map. I am the villages in the country and I am the cities," he said drawing his hand through the air to paint the picture for Louis. "I am the people, the culture, the State and the government. If hardship befalls the country, I feel it. If good things happen, I feel those as well." He rested his hand over his heart, over Paris. "I grow with our culture and our traditions. I also grow with our conquest and expansion. And I use a-a-a-all of that to determine the best course of action. That is how I help."

" . . . _What_ are you?" Louis asked instead, looking for a deeper answer. "Are you human?"

"Yes, and no. I'm a _person_ , I suppose. I am entirely _me_ , but I am also _us_. But I cannot . . . I feel pain, and I can be killed, but I cannot _die_ , exactly. Not unless France dies."

"How old are you?"

"Chronologically? Mmmm," France hummed, "One thousand, two hundred and ninety-y-y-y-four if I start counting the year Clovis I was crowned. I can only remember as far back as Charlemagne, so my math could be a little off. I think I'm eighteen or so, physically." He shrugged. "And so," he said, draping himself dramatically over the desk. "I remain frozen in time, but not at the same time. I watch my people grow old, I watch others move on, and I remain the same." He intended for it to sound fantastical and dreamy, but still he sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Ah, listen to me, waxing poetic. The bottom line is that you and I are meant to work together. Like I said, _Votre Majesté_ , you're very smart! I can tell! And I'm gorgeous, and also smart. We combine our strengths - your analytical thinking and attention to detail, and my knowledge and history - and I'll be fine! You'll be fine. The country will be fine."

"This is what you wanted to talk about the other day, isn't it?"

"Yes. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Tell me," France challenged him, and Louis paused. "So I can be sure you understand. This is important."

"You're saying that you are a representation of who and what I am meant to rule. You are an invaluable asset to me, and an ally. I should use and trust your council in all matters."

"Yes!" France said, smiling and winking at Louis. "I told you you were smart!"

Louis obviously loved the flattery, rolling his shoulders back as though proud of France's recognition. "My cousin, Philippe, the future Duc d'Orléans, says that you are not to be trusted."

"Uuuuuugh!" France groaned, the poetic mood killed. He leaned down and pressed his forehead into the desk exasperatedly. "Why?! Why does he hate me?"

"He says that you're duplicitous. He says that you act one way when you're being _France_ , and you act another way when you're being Monsieur Bonnefoy, in social settings."

"Hah!" France snorted. "Me, and everyone else at Versailles! He should know that when you hold a public office, you can't always act like a fool! And how would he know me when I've only ever interacted with his father while Louis XV was still alive?"

"Maybe his father doesn't like you, and so Philippe doesn't like you," Louis offered simply.

"Maybe, but I don't know why his father would have started to hate me. Ever since Philippe was presented to Louis XV and started living at Versailles . . . Maybe he's jealous. Ever since he saw how close I was to Louis XV . . . I don't know." France paused, finally realizing how honest Louis was, to the point of being blunt. "Well thanks for telling me, but it's a personal vendetta that he harbors, against Francis Bonnefoy. It does not affect my ability to do my job as France. Don't listen to him."

"Alright," Louis said, nodding with finality. "I will confront him the next time he tries to complain."

France was grateful that he would, but he recognized the indecisiveness that plagued Louis's reputation since he was a child. An inability to commit, or to maintain an opinion. Always ready to be swayed by the last person he talked to. France nodded his thanks.

"I appreciate it. Just remember: we're on the same side here. There's one other thing I wanted to mention. Your coronation ceremony is in two weeks. With our financial situation being as . . . troubling as it is, an idea has been proposed that we have the coronation ceremony in Paris instead of Reims. It would be much, much cheaper, and extremely visible, which would endear you to the people right out of the gate. You will be asked for your opinion on it, whether we should keep it at Reims or move it to Paris instead."

"Hmm . . . " Louis considered. His eyes glazed and roved from left to right as he no doubt mapped it out in his head. "Reims or Paris . . . What do you think?"

"Me?" France asked, gesturing to himself. "I recommend Paris. For how much money we'd save I think it would be better. They're estimating the bill for Reims at seven million livres, and Paris would be a fraction of that. Despite enjoying the tradition of Reims . . . my kings have been coronated there for over thirteen hundred years - some forty-six monarchs. I still don't think it is worth it to foot the bill, even though it would make me sad because I'm a sentimental man who enjoys the aesthetic. That's strictly my recommendation, but the decision is entirely up to you. And I will support whatever you decide." Or at least, he would be forced to make peace with whatever Louis decided.

"I think I agree," Louis said, still distant. "Paris would be . . . refreshing. Much different than the normal glamour of Versailles."

"Yes," France agreed. "Great. I won't be traveling with you or staying at the Tuileries Palace. I have friends in Paris who I stay with every time I go, so if you have any questions for me leading up to the day, make sure you ask them ahead of time. And I just wanted to give you one more warning that immediately after your coronation, we will start having meetings with your other advisors. If you stick to Louis XV's schedule, and I recommend you do just for sake of organization, then Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays are reserved for your High Council. That's you, me, the Dauphin when you have one, Monsieur Turgot who is the new minister of finances you appointed, and Messieurs Vergennes and Phélypeaux who were Louis XV's secretaries of state and who will be yours as well. And then Tuesdays and Saturdays is the financial council, which is you, me, and Turgot, as well as your tax collectors from the major cities. And then Fridays are for your religious council, which is just for you, me, and specific clergymen that you select."

" . . . "

"I can tell I'm losing you," France said at Louis's silence. He lightly slapped his palms on the desk and stood up. "We can talk about it later-"

Louis blinked and shook his head. "No, no, I'm following you. I'm just very nervous."

"I know, but I've got you covered," France assured him lightly. "Don't worry about it! If there's any questions you have, just ask me. I'll be there to help you every step of the way. And I believe in you! You'll be fine, I promise!"

_The 15th of May,  
_ _in the Year of Our Lord 1774_

_France,_

_Today marks the four year anniversary of my Maria-Antonia's marriage to your Prince, Louis-Auguste. As you know, King Louis XV and Empress Maria-Theresa arranged their marriage to solidify an advantageous political alliance between us and end a bitter, decades-long rivalry. Now that Louis-Auguste and Antonia are King and Queen, the maintenance of this alliance we have forged entirely depends upon Louis and Antonia consummating their marriage and conceiving a child. Despite the importance of this task, I have received countless correspondences with Antonia that insist Louis refuses to lie with her. Attempts have been made on her part, according to the Count Mercy-Argentou and Antonia herself, but Louis will not engage._

_I'm not sure what is wrong with him. Regardless of if Louis's problems are of a mental or physical nature, I recommend you have him treated for whatever it is that ails him and encourage him to sire an heir, both for France's sake and for my sake. I will be traveling to Reims for their coronation on the 11th of June, and I expect a positive update on this situation._

_I wish for no other interactions between us apart from this issue and the necessary interactions of the ceremony. I'm still justifiably angry with you over the War of Succession. I find these ceremonies and duties of ours insufficient reason for conversation when we meet again._

_Roderich Edelstein;_

_Kaiserthum Österreich - Monarchie Habsburger_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some History Notes:
> 
> In most of the sources I read, Louis loved hunting, locksmithing, and wood-working (There's a special story about him making a spinning wheel for Marie Antoinette as a present!). And he also loved, loved, LOVED the sea and the navy. While I couldn't find anywhere that Louis made model ships, I just thought it'd be a cool fusion of his passions considering how much he loved wood-working as well as maritime and naval pursuits.
> 
> The 7 million livre figure for the cost of the coronation is adjusted for inflation! XD
> 
> This is an original chapter that wasn't in the first one. Hope you like it! As always, leave a comment if you have the time!  
> ~Keyblader


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tumblr user Rpaprika made the absolutely amazing art at the beginning of this chapter! You and xxarcadewarlockxx are so, so, so, so, SO AMAZING for making art to accompany this fic. Being able to catch glimpses of France in Versailles through art rather than just in my head is so rewarding and I can't thank you both enough.
> 
> Here's a link to rpaprika's Tumblr if you want to check out their blog:
> 
> https://rpaprika.tumblr.com/

**__ **

**_June 11, 1775  
_ ** **_The Coronation of Louis XVI  
_ ** **_Notre-Dame de Reims_ **

At 5:45 a.m. on the morning of June 11, 1775, France walked to Notre-Dame de Reims to find his beloved cathedral profaned and desecrated beyond recognition.

Some kind of false wooden wall was standing in front of the cathedral's real stone façade. Ugly, mismatched, and unnaturally flat, the wall covered up the carved intricacies of the portals, as well as all the statues on either side of them. Two of France's favorite statues, including the smiling Archangel Gabriel, and even the Virgin Mary to whom the cathedral was dedicated, were hidden by the carnage. The wall was painted blue and covered top to bottom with _fleurs-de-lys_ , with three man-sized holes cut into the bottom as makeshift 'doors' as though the cathedral's original ones weren't enough. A stage of sorts, with stairs leading up to it from the ground, stretched out from the wall like an unsightly growth, and it was covered overhead by a flat wooden roof. The gabled and spired roofs of both the portals and the rose window peeked out over the top edge of the construction, as though trying to hop over it to still be seen.

He expected to see an ethereal and timeless piece of his culture and history. One of his symbols of National pride, where he had been "born" as the Kingdom of France under Clovis I, and where he had crowned nearly every single king of France since. Instead, he found a wooden mockery. A million questions forced their way into his head at once and his heart took a leap into his throat, pounding away at the base of his neck.

The coronation ceremony wasn't set to start for another hour and fifteen minutes, but already the crowd of spectators massing around the manufactured abomination in front of his cathedral entrance was incredibly large. Guards stood shoulder to shoulder with their bayonets braced horizontally across their bodies, locked together to keep the happily energetic people from rushing the stage. The train of glittering carriages of nobles not deemed important enough to have been given a space in the Palace du Tau stretched back down the road for well over a mile, hindered by both the people running alongside them waving and cheering, and by the traffic jam that the false façade caused in the courtyard. France allowed himself to be swept up into the crowd, gently ushering people out of the way in front of him.

He finally reached the wooden stage, and before he could stop it, "Oh, what in the _world_ is this thing?" slipped from his mouth. Those around him shot him questioning glances but he ignored them, more concerned with the thing in front of him and what in the _world_ it was. Rather than try and force his way through the guards, he pushed and prodded his way to the right, slipping around the corner of the building. He walked along the outside of the southern wall, sliding his hand along the cool stone base of each buttress to make sure they were still there and hadn't also been defiled by whatever spectacle they had planned out front. The south side of the cathedral only had one portal, and luckily the statues spreading out to either side of the door were free of any alterations. The huge dark wooden door dwarfed him as he approached, but France tried the handle of the real, smaller door in the right corner. The latch refused to drop, locked from the inside. France pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the door, running inside and quickly shutting the door behind him in case anyone from the crowd saw him enter and got any ideas.

The Archbishop of Reims, Charles-Antoine de la Roche-Aymons, already dressed in his vestments, whirled around in alarm at the sound of the door shutting. "Remove yourself from this sacristy-!"

"It's me, Your Grace!" France said, throwing his palms up in a gesture of peace. "Sorry! It's me."

He sighed, shoulders slumping in relief. His narrow face relaxed and wide, baggy eyes sagged into their deep wrinkles as he shook his head, rubbing his hands down the front of his long, floor-length white and gold robes. "France," he said, his voice returning to the soft crackle of an old man. He pointed to his hair. "Do you see these grey hairs? They're from you."

"You're 78 years old, Archbishop. Your entire head is grey, so I doubt I was the whole cause," France lightly teased back. The Archbishop smiled widely, and France couldn't help but smile back. His kindly eyes and jolly nature gave him an excellent disposition as a priest, and gave France the impression of a gentle grandfather.

"Good to see you!" he said while France bowed to him. "We missed you yesterday."

"Yes, well, I'm staying with friends at _Les Roues de Chariot_ instead of the Palace du Tau, so I missed the rehearsal call time. But here I am!" he finished brightly, spreading his hands to his side.

"And Louis is better with you here, I'm sure," the Archbishop said. His face grew suddenly stern, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening as his eyes narrowed. "How in the world did you get a key to the sacristy?"

France shrugged, quickly sliding it into his jacket pocket before the Archbishop could decide to take it from him. "Jeanne d'Arc gave it to me, in 1429." He smiled in a way that he knew was completely smug, teasing the Archbishop by pulling his 'historical and religious importance' card.

He raised an eyebrow and shot France a dull look. "Alright, alright. Lock the door behind you and then get out. You really aren't supposed to be back here."

"I know," France said. "Hey - what in the world is standing outside in front of the cathedral, and who is responsible for it?"

"Ugh!" he snorted. "Isn't it ugly?"

France nodded his head fast, almost making himself dizzy. "It's profane!" he cried.

"It absolutely is," the Archbishop replied. "Some kind of stage - cut out in the middle so that carriages can ride through! I haven't the slightest clue who is responsible for it, but I'm not happy about it. Just wait until you see the inside," he said, pointing over his shoulder to the door leading to the inside of the cathedral.

France's hands and feet grew suddenly cold in a chill that shot down his spine. "The inside? What did they do to the inside?"

"Go see it," the Archbishop said, rolling his eyes.

France narrowed his eyes, waiting for another reply. A 'just kidding' or maybe a 'gotcha'. But it never came. He turned away from the Archbishop and gently cracked the door open, just enough to peek out.

The structure they built inside was even worse than the outside. It was as if a forest of clean-cut timbers had been erected in the church, disrupting the texture and aesthetic of the architecture. Row after row after row of tall wooden poles sat planted on the sides of the center aisle, removing several feet of space on either side of the church and closing it in. An entire second floor, complete with wooden stairs leading to it, had been constructed at the front of the church over the doors, with several box-like compartments and seats for nobles to sit and watch. The wood was gilded with gold and painted blue, the official colors of the monarchy, but it was fake and unnatural next to the beautifully smooth stone. Golden tassels and decorations hung from every perceivable part of the wooden construct, further adding to the opulence. France could barely see the tiny arches around the portals that held little stone scenes of his past.

It looked like an opera house. They turned his cathedral into an opera house.

And already, guests were being ushered up the stairs and seated in their 'box' based on their rank. The most important people, those closest to the king who would sit in the chairs on the newly made 'ground floor', were meandering around inside the church, chatting or taking instruction or giving instruction.

"Oh, _Jesus_ ," he hissed, figuring he would be off the hook for the curse since he was in a cathedral.

"Yes, indeed," the Archbishop intoned sadly, peeking over his shoulder. "The tradition is ruined. Never in my life have I seen such disrespect and irreverence toward a house of God. I made every attempt to have this monstrosity overturned. I talked to the Prior of Saint-Remi, even, and had him on my side. But someone very close to the king has convinced him otherwise."

"Hm," France hummed, and his heart grew heavy and sad in his chest, lamenting the loss of his beautiful cathedral for a ceremony so important. He closed the door and turned back to the Archbishop who straightened the collar and extremely wide cuffs of France's silky, off-white jacket. He tugged on the bottom of France's vest and straightened the black sash that would mark him as someone of importance during the ceremony. France twirled the ends of his long, wavy ponytail around one of his fingers and curled it elegantly over his shoulder.

"How do I look?" he asked once the Archbishop was finished preening him.

"Excellent. You should take your place," the Archbishop told him. "I'll have to leave soon with Bishop Talleyrand and a few others to get the anointing oil from the monks in Saint-Remi Abbey."

"Well," France said, and he couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice at having to partake in the ridiculous show about to transpire. "Don't keel over before you get there, old man."

"You're older than me, you fop. Also, since you couldn't make it yesterday, I am supposed to tell you, as if you don't already know, that your role is to bestow upon Louis the sword of Charlemagne after his vows. The sword awaits you by the altar, and the Prior was sufficiently upset that you couldn't practice yesterday in person. Now, go away."

He sent France on his way with a shooing motion, so France left the sacristy and the Archbishop behind him. He closed the door and maneuvered his way through servants, clergymen, nobles, and others, running around to put the finishing touches on the preparations. At the front of the church, shadowed underneath the newly constructed balcony, France found Bishop de Beauvais, the court confessor at Versailles. And, France noted, his soul sinking further, Anne Robert Jacques Turgot, Louis's finance minister. Turgot stood where he knew France was supposed to stand so he could intercept him. Turgot's eyes locked on France's and they flared angrily at him. France sighed, deciding to bear the brunt of Turgot's yelling now rather than later.

"Monsieur Turgot," France greeted flatly with a slight bow, and Turgot bristled. "Your Excellency," he offered to the Bishop before Turgot could say anything. The moment he straightened from his bow, Turgot began his interrogation.

"Where were you yesterday?" he demanded.

"Yesterday?" France asked, feigning innocence.

"The rehearsal. For the _coronation of the King of France_ ," he hissed.

"Never change, Turgot," France said, throwing him a casual wave. "Monsieur, I've been attending this ceremony since the year 509, and I've been participating in this ceremony since the year 768. It's been almost exactly the same for my last forty-six-or-so monarchs. I think I've got it down. Now," he added quickly before Turgot could argue, "if this had been in _Paris_ , as it was discussed, then _maybe_ I would've been more pressed to attend. Just to make sure I knew where to be in the cathedral."

"It was _Louis_ who decided to keep the coronation in Reims, not me," Turgot said. "It was he who decided on this pomp and circumstance." He gestured to the wooden nightmare around them. "Someone convinced him otherwise."

France moved behind the Bishop's back and pointed to him, raising his eyebrows to Turgot in an obvious question. Turgot shrugged, mouthing back, " _Probably_. Maybe the Archbishop of Paris," he finished aloud.

France made a huge show of throwing his head back and rolling his eyes so far back in his head that Turgot would only see the whites. "Clergy," he muttered under his breath. "Did you try and tell Louis how much this Reims coronation would cost? I already ran it by him once-"

"Of course I did. And at first he seemed entirely on board with Paris. A day went by between my first meeting with him and the next, and all of a sudden, it's, 'Reims! Reims! Tradition!' He said he talked to . . . " Turgot paused to point wordlessly at the Bishop, still with his back to them. " . . . and the Archbishop of Paris as well, and then went off about how the coronation was meant to symbolize a union between the king and his subjects which did little to prove his point. It sounded like he was just echoing someone else's words."

"Well, I mean, Louis is not _wrong_ , but . . . I don't believe we need all _this_ to convey the symbolism."

"Right. This looks like some kind of farce. Like a child's dream of a coronation. The nation doesn't have enough credit to borrow for something like this. I'm going to have a seat now, before I think more on how expensive this spectacle is." Turgot massaged his forehead as he left France's side to take his seat in one of the chairs on the floor, to the right side of the nave.

At that moment the Bishop said, without turning towards him, "Don't you have a sword to pick up?"

France sighed. "Indeed I do, Excellency. Don't _you_ have some oil to be collecting with the Archbishop of Reims?" He didn't wait for the Bishop's reply. He slowly worked his way up the center aisle, trying to decide if he should have been upset by Louis's change of heart or not. It wasn't the opulence of the ceremony that he necessarily held in contention even though Louis's additions were ugly by France's standards. France still loved the coronation ceremony. It held many, _many_ fond memories for him of his kings throughout the years, and he felt it should be elevated to any height his King deemed appropriate. But at the same time, he felt a bit betrayed. Louis had directly asked for his opinion on the Reims or Paris matter. It sounded like he truly listened to France and agreed with him - that Paris was better. Cheaper, more visible. To have him change his mind so quickly was both confusing and a bit disconcerting.

His heart began to _thump_ hard against his ribcage, and a cold sweat began on the back of his neck, the first feelings of discomfort he felt since the day he met Louis. He quickly loosened his black cravat to allow some cool air on his neck despite the sour glare he received from some of the clergy seated in the choir behind the altar.

Charlemagne's sword was prepared for him on a wide silver plate to the right of the altar. The very sight of the gold scabbard and _fleurs-de-lys_ etched in relief brought a smile to France’s face and eased some of his nerves. Charlemagne would have hated this kind of glittery ceremony. He was a man of function and practicality. He found value in things that had direct uses. At least, that was what France remembered about him.

He took the sword in his hands and unsheathed the blade a few inches to peek at the unblemished steel. Two roaring lions stretched out from the ends of the crosspiece. The grip was inlaid in a zagging pattern, and the large pommel held one final massive _fleur-de-lys_ surrounded by swirls and designs. France delicately held it out in front of him. The sword had been recently shined, it seemed, and it glinted beautifully in the yellow sunlight that had begun to pour into the rose windows. Charlemagne always kept the blade pristine. It made France proud that the monks in the abbey at Saint-Denis kept its condition. France was only five, but he had followed Charlemagne and the sword to the war camps in Italy, Saxony, the Iberian Peninsula, and across the entirety of Western Europe. Though France wasn't permitted to partake in the battles themselves, he remembered when Charlemagne wielded the sword, carrying it at his side almost at all times. Each time he left a camp, he would hold it out to France and have him kiss the blade. "For luck," Charlemagne used to say.

France lifted the sword and pressed it to his lips. "I hope my magic is still in effect," he whispered to the heavens, praying Charlemagne heard it and would intercede. He carried the sword in his hands and made his way back to the doors, bearing all the stares he received. The Bishop was gone.

After a long while people began to take their seats, sensing the start of the ceremony. France stared at the doors and waited. Suddenly, a presence was at his side, pressing up against his awareness. He stole a quick glance out of the corner of his eye and found Austria on his left. Slightly taller than France, he kept his eyes on Austria's white cravat to not draw attention to the movement. "Austria," France whispered in a greeting, nodding his head.

Austria's spine stiffened, but he refused to respond. " _Hmph_!" he snorted, turning his head away from France and sticking his nose in the air.

"Still not talking to me, huh?" France replied dully.

" _Shh_!" Austria hissed.

"Guess that's a no," he shrugged, sighing loudly. "Come on, you can't be mad at me forever-"

"Oh, yes I-" Austria started, head snapping back in France's direction. He frowned as he remembered he wasn't speaking to France and scoffed, rolling his eyes. " _Pfah_!" he grumbled, crossing his arms indignantly.

France had to turn away so Austria couldn't see his lips curling into a smile. It wasn't his intention to make Austria angry, but he was just too funny when he was upset. "Okay, well, talk to you at the after party."

"No you won't," Austria said, so low and under his breath that France almost missed it.

Some time later, the bells in the cathedral sounded the turn of the hour, 7:00 a.m., when the ceremony was to begin. The cathedral doors opened, and France and Austria stepped outside onto the wooden stage.

It was covered overhead and almost completely dark. Luckily the light of the still-rising sun, slanting in from just over the tops of the cathedral, barely illuminated their makeshift path. It bathed small parts of the stage in a beautiful golden light, but to France the concept was ruined by the imperfect structure around them. A massive, gilded litter lay off to the right, heavily curtained with red velvet and gold tassels. Louis and Marie lay stretched on top of the soft bed inside, wearing silvery-white clothes that shimmered even in the low light. France realized that Louis's vest and breeches and Marie's white dress were studded with some kind of iridescent stone. The cravat around Louis' neck and the large, thick royal cloak hastily concealed the rest of him, like he subconsciously wanted to bury his discomfort and just be swallowed up. The cloak itself was blue velvet with a fur collar, embroidered with heavy houndstooth and _fleurs-de-lys_ all over it. Louis glanced up at France, wide-eyed and obviously nervous, but at least the cloak hid the way he was no doubt fiddling with the lace from his sleeve. France tried to smile at him, and Louis forced a stiff twitch of his lips. Marie looked just as wide-eyed, but in wonder, not in nerves. She looked ready to take on the experience. Her blonde hair was tied in a beautiful up-do behind her with white ribbons and braids, and a long piece that strayed from it curled over her shoulder. France offered her a smile as well, soft and reassuring, and Marie returned the gesture with so much poise and elegance that she outshined Louis. The bearers of the royal litter stood at the corners ready to hoist them up and process them through the doors.

Louis and Marie's chamberlains stood behind them. An unnamed, low-ranking clergy member lined them all up, starting with the participating clergy members in front, then Louis and Marie on the litter, then France and Austria. There was another small waiting period, and lastly the four men bearing the Sacred Ampulla of anointing oil arrived on horseback from Saint-Remi Abbey. The Bishop de Beauvais and the Archbishop of Reims were among them, and they dismounted and took their place at the back of the procession. The poor Archbishop nodded to France as soon as they were ready, his face red and wind-burned, mouth open as he huffed and puffed raggedly. He had not weathered the ride well, it seemed, and France regretted the keel over comment he made before he left the Archbishop's side.

Someone signaled to the inside of the cathedral and the large doors shut behind them with a loud _clang_ to begin the entrance ceremony. Three knocks sounded from the inside, and Louis's chamberlain yelled, "What do you want?" as loud as he could through the closed door.

"We want Louis XVI, whom God has given us as king!"

* * *

**_Palais du Tau  
_** **_Salle de Banquet_ **

The Archbishop of Reims upheld the long-standing coronation tradition of hosting a celebratory dinner in his Palace after the ceremony. The Banquet Hall in the Palace du Tau was covered wall-to-wall in blue curtains with gold _fleurs-de-lys_ , pulled aside only for the doors. It made them look ridiculously small in comparison to the rest of the room. The windows were thrown wide open but the night sky and stars let very little light in. Instead, a huge fire in the massive stone fireplace and hundreds of candles and braziers had been lit, bathing the room in dim gold light that danced its way along the tapestry. It created a warm, cozy ambiance that France had always enjoyed.

That night, France's role in the social hierarchy was somewhere after the Princes of the Blood. Louis was installed at the head of the dinner table. The Comtes de Provence and d’Artois were at Louis’s immediate right and left. Next sat the Ducs d’Orléans and de Bourbon in the next positions, and the Princes de Condé and Conti. Finally, France shared his position at the middle of the table opposite a mix of other nobles. He didn't know most of them. Marie Antoinette sat perched at the other end of the table with her retinue - mostly Princesses of the Blood, Austria, and the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, the Viennese ambassador to Versailles. The entire night was an unpleasant mix of sharing awkward silences with Louis (who seemed more interested in the food on his plate than conversation), sharing nasty looks with the Duc d’Orléans, making small talk with the Comte d'Artois, graciously deflecting the Duc’s jabs at him, sharing nasty looks with Austria across the table, and sharing half-curious glances with Marie Antoinette. Several times she caught him staring, and each time he tried to offer her some kind of gesture. He tried a small smile, a lift of his glass, a casual wink. Each time she looked away before he could manage anything, whispering hurriedly to the ladies at her sides.

He hadn't yet had the chance to really be alone with Marie Antoinette and learn who she was and what she was like. He knew a little about her based on what her mother, Empress Maria Teresa, wrote to Louis XV. In person, Marie looked different than that caricature. Her mother made her out to be an innocent and docile child who was eager to please those around her, almost to the point of patheticness. France saw something stronger than that in her eyes. An upbeat and positive disposition, a childlike wonder that wasn't too overly naïve, an overall zeal to pursue the things she loved (no matter how frivolous those things were), and an inward confidence that allowed her to be unashamedly herself. She was delicately beautiful, with her ash-blonde hair and fair complexion. France could tell she was purposefully muting some of her energy, no doubt scared to misstep in the intricacies of the French Court.

He vowed to devote some time to her after the dinner.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy!" came a haughty sneer to his left. France knew who it was without having to look. He heard the predatory tone, like an animal about to pounce on its cornered prey.

"Monsieur le Duc!" France answered, methodically swiveling his head to stare down the Duc d'Orléans. "Thank you so-o-o-o, so much for indulging me in conversation tonight!" France said, acting as though he had been the one to pester the Duc and not the other way around. It exploited the Duc d'Orléans's habit of looking down on everyone around him. France kept his face neutral, but poured sarcasm over his words until he was sure they dripped with it. He crafted his next insult carefully. "And here I thought you didn't like me, but I appreciate that you have a lot to say to someone who you think is low-ranking, like me." The insinuation that the Duc continuously associated with 'someone low-ranking like him' was insult enough.

At the same time that the back-handed compliment registered on the Duc's face, the Comte d'Artois snorted loudly, slapping his hand over his mouth to try and hide it. Unfortunately, it gathered more attention than he wanted. Even the lower ranking nobles at the middle of the table began to tune in, eager to be a part of whatever it was that made him laugh. He quickly hid his reaction behind a sip of his wine and stared down at the table to avoid displaying his smile. Louis, finally disturbed enough to look up, did so with wide eyes, looking around as though realizing for the first time where he was and that he had company.

"Hm?" he asked pleasantly. He saw that all the attention was flitting between France and the Duc and waited patiently for whatever was happening to continue, unaware of the social warfare playing out in front of him.

"To what do I owe this _immense_ pleasure?" France added, shaking his head slowly to emphasize the weight of the Duc's attention.

The Duc d'Orléans bristled, cheeks turning red. The Comte d'Artois's shoulders heaved in silent, repressed laughter. He leaned further over the table, hands over his face, and it caused the other princes to laugh outwardly. Only the Comte de Provence frowned disapprovingly at their verbal sparring match. France picked up his glass and swirled it around, never taking his eyes off the Duc's even to the point of awkwardness. The Duc, surprisingly, rose to the challenge despite the obvious humiliation he had to have been feeling.

The Duc cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders to steel himself again. "I merely wanted to ask if what I heard about you was true!" France silently cursed. If the Duc made up a horrendously vicious rumor now, with everyone listening, it would be spread around the entirety of Versailles in the week before France could refute it. Even if he refuted it now, he'd have a hard time eradicating it completely. "I heard that you were an advocate of having the coronation ceremonies in Paris and not in Reims!"

A part of him inwardly sighed with relief. He thought the Duc would try for something below the belt. But still, the subject of the coronation was a big deal to the court, as most major social functions were. France carefully watched the reactions of the other nobles, even though he knew his fleeting eyes would look suspicious. Several of them directly across from him blinked their surprise at him or narrowed their eyes in confusion, wondering why in the world he would have suggested such a thing. Even some of the Princes, clearly out of Louis's administrative loop, looked concerned that he would advocate for Paris. France quickly decided on the best course of action.

"Yes," he said slowly. "That is correct - I was an advocate for it. The idea of Paris was brought to my attention by Monsieur Turgot in response to some . . . concerns that he had." France knew the sentence sounded incomplete, but he didn't want to spout the financial downslide of the crown in front of everyone. Especially since it would only sound like an embarrassment on Louis's part. "I agreed with Monsieur Turgot. But I thoroughly enjoyed today's ceremony and festivities, regardless of their location!" he smoothed. "I'll be honest: it was a difficult choice for me to make, choosing between prudence and tradition. Most of you know that I'm horrifically sentimental!" He smiled, gesturing to some of the other nobles around the table and hoping to endear them to him. To his delight, he received some small smiles and slight nods. The Duc's rage heightened, and France almost felt its heat from his seat. "But, I ultimately left it up to His Majesty, and what a great ceremony it was!" To hopefully end the discussion, he raised his glass in the air. "A toast to King Louis," he said, nodding to him, "and to Queen Marie-Antoinette!" He turned and nodded to her as well and she finally returned the gesture, smiling radiantly, her eyes crinkling in genuine happiness. So genuine and beautiful that it seemed to draw light from the rest of the room. She clearly relished the attention. Next to her, Austria bristled as well, and between him and the Duc d'Orléans France felt closed in by two people that wanted to murder him at the moment. He wished Prussia or Spain were there with him. Prussia could have intimidated anyone away from him and Spain would have done something cute and charming to take the attention off of him. " _A vos santés, Majestés!_ "

After the toast, the Duc wasn't finished with him. "His Majesty tells me that you found Louis XIV and Philippe IV to be your best leaders in history. Do you think Louis XVI will rank up there with them? What similarities do you see between them all?" An evil glint sparked in the Duc's eyes, and France knew the Duc had scored a point in their little game. He resisted the urge to sigh or roll his eyes, already fed up with the mess he created by provoking the Duc.

The Duc used a perfect tactic. It was out of the question that France say something negative about Louis. But at the same time, if he sang Louis's praises despite Louis's obvious defects and character flaws, then France proved himself to be untruthful. It could seem as though he only maintained his position next to the King because of a silver tongue. Not to mention his relationship with Louis. If he spun a web of compliments and adoration and they ever clashed later, Louis would think him a liar.

France realized he was taking too long to answer. "W-well," he began, stalling by taking a large sip of his wine.

"Leave him alone, please," Louis's small voice intoned, like a parent scolding a child, sparing him the trouble. "You've badgered him enough tonight. And besides, I don't want to be compared to _Le Roi Soleil_ or _Philippe le Roi de Fer_. I want to be Louis XVI, and nothing more and nothing less." France blinked, not expecting Louis's intervention at all, let alone Louis's intervention with something so wise and poetic. "Monsieur Bonnefoy has so far been a good friend and a wise advisor and I'm growing to trust him more and more, day after day. Do you dispute my judgment, Cousin?"

"Not at all, Sire," the Duc replied, casting his eyes down in deference.

"Thank you," Louis said, acting as though the Duc's denial was a compliment and effectively ending the dispute.

Louis confidently met France's eye. France felt Louis's resolve, unwavering and strong for the first time that France could remember. He mouthed, " _Thank you_ ," to Louis, and Louis nodded once and returned to his plate. Regular conversation started up again until the end of the dinner, when they were allowed to roam freely.

For most of the night, finally freed of social conventions, Louis stayed comfortably nestled somewhere between his brothers and the other princes playing cards, and Marie stayed nestled between Austria, the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, and her other courtiers simply talking. Sometimes one of the princes would detach to talk to their wives or grab another drink, and the princesses would check on their husbands and ensure that they were winning. France watched from a nondescript corner of the room, not-really sipping at his wine, trying to determine the best way to get Marie away from her courtiers and especially away from Austria. He probably wouldn't permit her to talk to him.

After a while of mapping out the strategic conversation in his head and even the positioning he would need to ask to speak to Marie before Austria could refuse, Louis made eye contact with France and quietly excused himself from the card table. He made his way over and stood next to him.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked France.

"Yes, I am. Congratulations, King Louis! We are officially each others's problem on paper!" France said. He smiled up at him and Louis laughed, raising his glass. France _clinked_ his against Louis's, and together they took a sip. "Thanks for the save earlier. Maybe I do know why the Duc hates me," he muttered, laughing bitterly.

"Well," Louis chuckled, "you're welcome, but that was as much for you as it was for me. The Duc tried to corner you and I know that, but it was a good opportunity to . . . assert myself." That bluntly honest streak in Louis forced its way out of him in the next sentence, and Louis said, "You made me feel much, much better about my situation and my temperament the other day, but even so, the thought of what you could say about me in comparison to your past rulers terrified me. I know I don't measure up, and I couldn't bear to hear it. Not from you, who I know has . . . seen some poor rulers."

France shook his head hard, hair whipping across his shoulders. "You're not a poor ruler, Louis," France insisted. "You haven't even had the chance to do anything yet!" That was definitely the wrong thing to say, because Louis frowned into his wine glass. "But when you do, I'm sure you'll be fine! I'm here to help you, not to judge you. I'm just a guide, so let me help, but make your own decisions. Be firm."

"Firm," Louis repeated. "I'm sorry about the coronation, speaking of firm." He grabbed at his sleeves, looking more like a child apologizing than a grown man. "I told you Paris and then I switched it back to Reims on you. I should have stuck to my first decision."

France's immediate reaction was to brush off the apology, tell Louis it was fine, but he still felt a little betrayed by the abrupt change, especially after Louis went to such a length to hear him out. He couldn't think of the proper way to describe that in the moment, so instead he decided on, "I . . . It's . . . It ended up . . . " He blanked, thinking of the disgusting disfigurement of Notre-Dame de Reims. "No, I said I'd support your decision," he finished lamely.

Louis stared skeptically at the floor, clearly not believing that he was forgiven but unable or unwilling to meet France's eye. Wordlessly they surveyed the room together, and France kept his eye on Marie. Before, her infectious happiness seemed to radiate outwards. She seemed to make others around her happy as well, whether they wanted to be or not. Now, it seemed Austria and the Comte were discussing something troubling. She sat stiffly on a settee, with her hands clasped in her lap and face downturned into a frown. The natural shape of her lip made her look even more pouty, and she constantly cast pleading glances over her shoulder to the Princess de Lamballe - one of her closest friends. The Princess was a widower, and before Marie arrived she had constantly sought out different friendships while at Court. Her and Marie connected immediately, and the two rarely spent any time apart since Marie arrived in France all those years ago. Unfortunately, the Princess was wrapped up in conversation with the Comtesse de Provence, and wasn't paying any attention to the help that was requested of her.

Austria leaned close, placed his hand on Marie's arm, whispered something in her ear, and she shook her head, replying quickly.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Louis asked, nodding in their direction.

France tried to tune in, but even with his heightened senses the raucous laughter of the party, the sound of playing cards flapping, the chatter, and the clatter of glasses on tables drowned out the finer pitches of their conversation. "I don't know," he answered. "He's speaking French to her, at least, and not German."

The Comte de Mercy-Argentou leaned over her and spoke to Austria, who shrugged, pointing to himself then to Marie. He replied to the Comte, and Marie shook her head again, her towering hair bobbing threateningly. She placed her hand on both of their chests and they separated beside her, and France read her lips clearly: "Do we really need to discuss this now?" She smiled softly and peered up through her lashes to each of them, and to France it looked like she was trying to beguile them into dropping the subject.

"Whatever it is," France said, "Marie doesn't like it."

"Hm," Louis hummed. A picture entered France's mind, of Louis, tall and valiant, rushing over there to save his wife and his queen. France left a perfect opening for something like that, and the silence hang thick in the air, building and building with each second that Louis let tick by. France's shoulders crept closer and closer to his ears, coiling tighter and tighter with the impulse to do it himself, but at the last second, the Comte d'Artois stood up from the table. He threw his cards down, spreading his arms proudly, and the table erupted around him, with shouts and pats at what had to be a good hand. He smiled and bowed humbly before stepping out from his chair and inching over to the couch that Marie, Austria, and the Comte were perched on.

He struck up a conversation after the proper bows and etiquette, and France sighed, releasing all the tension. Perhaps the Comte d'Artois had seen her discomfort.

His boisterous exit had called the card game, and some of the other Princes of the Blood rose and dispersed around the room to continue with their partying. The Comte de Provence collected his wife from her frivolities, and together they wandered back over to Louis along with the Princess de Lamballe and the Duchesse d'Orléans, the Duc's wife. The Princess's round face and plump, rosy cheeks gave her a youthful energy, but her arched eyebrows and bulbous nose provided a mature grace that France thought was more her style. She wore a sky blue dress with lace lining the neckline and sleeves, and satin blue gloves over her fingers. A wide, flat hat with flowers and ribbons perched over her natural brown hair, which curled elegantly over one shoulder. Even in its simplicity, she outshone the Duchesse next to her. The Duchesse was also very young, but she sported a white powdered wig over her hair that made her look older. France and Louis paid their respects to the ladies, and they all turned and stood in silence watching what Louis watched - Marie, talking to Austria, the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, and the Comte d'Artois.

"Who is that she's with?" the Duchesse asked, "There, on her right?"

"An Austrian diplomat," France answered. "Someone I know."

Her eyebrows lifted and her nose wrinkled in disapproval. "Someone she knows too, it looks like."

"Yes, I think she's known him since she was a child-"

"Well, she looks awfully comfy with him, doesn't she?"

"What do you mean?" France asked, shrugging and gesturing towards them. "Of course she does, if she's known him since-"

"Look at how close they're sitting. Their legs are practically touching!" She hadn't even heard him say that they're familiar with each other. "Madame du Barry used to sit close to Louis XV like that - in his lap and whatnot. That's a sign of _something_ if ever I've seen one." France clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, not caring if anyone saw it, and the Princess de Lamballe offered a grateful glance in his direction, appreciating that he wasn't buying in to the gossip. That kind of purposefully vague language was the kind that was favored at Versailles - anyone could fill in the blanks with anything that they wanted in order to embellish a rumor, and it still could make sense with enough twisting.

"Yes, she looks _terribly_ happy right now," France said sarcastically. The Princess de Lamballe smirked in agreement, but the Duchesse either didn't hear or didn't care to acknowledge what he said.

"And look at how she looks at him. He keeps touching her arm like that . . . You know, I also heard," she said, lowering her voice so only those around her could hear, "that she spent a little _too much_ time with that Swede when they met last year, if you know what I mean."

"I liked Count Fersen!" France interjected, attempting once again to change the subject. "He was nice! Very, _very_ handsome too, if I remember-"

The Comte de Provence nudged Louis with his elbow. "You'd best keep your eyes on her. If I was you, I'd bed her down before anyone else does. You could learn from the Duchesse and I," he said, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her into him. A hugely large man, she seemed to fold into his chub. She smiled up at him. "We're at it four times a night most nights!"

She scoffed and slapped his arm with her fan, but Louis barked out a laugh. "I know that's not true, brother. You can't even see your toes, let alone your genitals."

France and the Princess de Lamballe broke down into laughter. France nearly doubled over, and watched the Comte's reaction. He shrugged it off, snapping back, "You don't need to see it if you know what to do with it." Louis abruptly stopped laughing. "Look at her. Good thing Charles went over there to break them up. She was probably conspiring against you with those Austrians as we speak!"

France's mood was killed immediately by the implication that she was conspiring against them just for speaking to Austria. He could understand their wariness to trust Marie after the War of Succession, but baseless accusations were far more damaging than simple apathetic acceptance of her presence. His anger surged and his fists clenched at his sides. He may not have known Marie well but he knew for certain she didn't deserve that kind of slander. "Okay-" France fumed. He turned, finger out, ready to defend his Queen to them, but to his surprise Louis's tiny voice carried over them, for the second time that night.

"Stop that," Louis said. "She is my wife, and your queen, and you will refrain from speaking about her like that."

The Comte and the Duchesse looked shocked by Louis's defense. The silence that immediately followed was so awkward, France contemplated curling up inside of himself on the spot and never emerging. It was probably the lamest defense France ever heard, but it worked. France threw back the rest of his wine, offered his arm to the Princesse de Lamballe and said, "If you would, Your Highness, let's go offer Her Majesty some better company." She took his arm and he led her away. He tossed his head back over his shoulder and added, "Surely better company'll be mutually beneficial to us and to her."

France led her over to Marie Antoinette. She seemed relieved to see the Princess de Lamballe, and she reached out for her to clasp her hands while France bowed to the Comte d'Artois, Austria, and the Comte de Mercy-Argentou. Austria seethed, squinting up at France from behind his glasses without getting up as he should have. France ignored the insult.

"Madame, you look _wonderful_ ," France said. "Just beautiful."

She tilted her head. "Awww," she cooed, "thank you so much!"

"And when I saw you smile earlier, I thought the stars had been pulled from the heavens!"

"Oh, _please_ ," Austria snorted. " _Hön nicht auf ihn. Es ist sinnlose Schmeichelei._ " French was abandoned on purpose, so France wouldn't understand what was said.

"Come on, Austria, don't be like that."

"I told you not to speak to me!" Austria snapped in the catch-all language that the Nations shared. "Not unless you have an update on a certain _situation_ that I told you about in a letter."

France did not, in fact, have any updates on any situations. So he remained quiet, unsure of how to follow that up. Austria turned to Marie and said, " _Er und ich reden nicht_."

"Why not?" she replied in French.

" _Weil er Preußen geholfen hat, Ihrer Mutter Schlesien wegnehmen. Ich mag ihn gerade nicht._ "

"In French, please?" France asked lamely, hating to give Austria the power in the discussion.

"Yes, in French," Marie said. "I told you that I was only to speak French once I settled here. I understand you may be mad at each other, but this is my coronation party! If you don't want to talk to him, Roderich, that's fine. You may entertain yourself with the other guests. You know how much I love and miss you, though, and how much I miss home, so I'd love it if you stayed. Please?"

"Fine," Austria grumbled, and then he stiffly stood and offered the Princess his seat. She settled in next to Marie and the Queen leaned in to her, resting her head affectionately on her shoulder. The Princesse wrapped a comforting arm around Marie's shoulder.

"The magnificent France!" Marie said. "It's so nice to finally talk to you in a setting like this."

"The pleasure is all mine, my radiant Queen. Congratulations." He offered her his hand and smoothly kissed her knuckle.

"Thank you," she said, nodding with such poise and grace she looked unreal. "Well, let's start with your hair," Marie said. "It's gorgeous."

"Oh, stop!" France said, playing at being embarrassed. He smiled sheepishly, half-turning away, and pressed one of his hands to his cheek. He waved the other dismissively. "I don't take compliments well. That'll go right to my head."

Marie and the Princess laughed, and even the Comtes d'Artois and de Mercy-Argentou cracked small smiles.

"I love that. I love the confidence that you have, too. It's so refreshing." France couldn't tell if there was a deeper meaning there. Was she trying to subtly say that it was refreshing because Louis had so little confidence? It already seemed like Marie Antoinette had more confidence in her pinkie finger than Louis had in his entire body.

France dashed the thoughts away. "That is so kind of you!" he gushed back to her, thoroughly enjoying the positivity that she shared so generously. "Now, I'm no philosopher," he said, kneeling on the floor in front of her to park himself into the discussion. Marie shifted to the edge of her seat and leaned in to him. "But I believe that true, healthy confidence begins with total love for yourself."

"I completely agree," Marie said immediately, with surety. A direct contrast to Louis's quiet contemplation. In comparison, it looked like Louis had never held an original opinion in his life. "We share that belief."

"What do you love about yourself, Madame?" France asked, a clear invitation to learn more about her.

"I love that . . . I am meant to be a link between-"

"Between France and Austria? Sure, but that's a diplomatic answer. What do _you_ love, Madame? What makes you happy?"

"I think . . . hm," she hummed, shoulders slumping while she considered it. "I love . . . simplicity," she decided on, narrowing her eyes and nodding as she said the word.

France nodded back. "Interesting," he said, propping his chin in his hands and resting his elbows on the couch. "Explain," he prompted. Nothing about her physically seemed simple, from her hair to her beautiful face to her silk slippers.

"Everything here is so . . . tense and public. Everybody watches everything I do here and sometimes I feel stifled. I miss the country feeling of my mother's palace in Austria and I miss the simplicity of that country life. I love the quiet of the outdoors. I love nature all around me and I love beauty and . . . We used to go sledding in the winter, my brothers and sisters and I. There probably won't be any of that here," she said quietly, as though afraid to insult someone by saying it. "But the gardens here are so nice for walking!"

France found her definition of 'country' to be a bit misplaced in comparison, but he understood what she meant. She had the same glittering imagination of a rural lifestyle that most nobles held - only the pretty scenes of birds chirping and animals braying and soft breezes. None of the manual labor or refuse involved. "Hey - His Majesty loves the outdoors!" France said, swiping his hand in Louis's direction. "That's something you two have in common. Maybe you two could go hunting together!" France stared at Austria as he said it. ' _See? I'm trying._ '

"Maybe," Marie said, polite but noncommittal. She rubbed her hands down the skirts of her dress as though she was drying her palms on them. "Oh, and I love the clothes here in France," she said, still drawing her comparisons. "The colors and the fabrics are beautiful. And fans," she said, spreading hers out in front of her face. Emblazoned in iridescent jewels and paints were her initials: M-A. "I just love this fan, don't you? I think it suits me."

"Of course," France said, delighted by how easy she was to talk to. "It matches your shoes. Very fashionable choice."

The Princess de Lamballe added, "Madame, you should tell them about your works of charity." Lamballe turned to France and said, "She has such a generous heart, too. She’s been working on a project lately to open a home for unwed mothers and orphans."

"Ah!" France yelled, throwing his hand over his chest. "What a beautiful idea! Austria, you’ve sent me an angel. I just love her!" he said loudly, in a way he knew would make Austria incredibly jealous. His cheeks colored and his fists clenched at his sides, almost trembling with building rage.

"Well, it’s not official yet," Marie said. "I’m still working with Louis on it. But most of you know how much I just adore children, and there are so many who suffer needlessly. I believe that whatever we have in excess we should be willing to share with the downtrodden."

"Brava, Madame," France said. "What more is there to say? You're wonderful. I already feel a connection to you," he said, staring deeply into her eyes. "And I think you and I are going to get along just fine-"

"France?" Austria snapped, practically growling his name. "A word." He grabbed France’s arm, yanked him up to his feet and dragged him back behind the settee and against the wall.

"Ow - ow - ow!" France squeaked. "What? Are we talking now?"

"You listen to me, _right now_ ," Austria hissed. France prepared himself for the scolding of a lifetime.

"I didn’t say anything rude-"

"Shut it. Look at me." Austria looked over his shoulder like he was going to share a secret and wanted to be sure they were alone. Sufficiently satisfied with the distance between him and the others even though they were all staring, he turned back to France. "Look at me," he said again, poking his fingers towards France's eyes and then back at his own. France recognized the depth Austria was reaching. National sentiment, imploring him with a much more forceful push than regular words could reach. "Take care of her."

France blinked. "What-?"

"Take care of my Antonia. And you better tell Louis to take care of her, too."

"Okay, okay-"

"I’m serious."

"I can tell."

"I'm not sure how much of what you just did was for show to find out about her, and how much of it was genuine interest in her. Just knock it off, and be genuine with her. Be a friend. She desperately, desperately needs one. You two have a lot in common, and I know she looks young and frivolous and silly, but that caring heart is real. She loves the world and she loves life. She has a certain way of speaking about things that just . . . captures your heart and makes you like her." His tone softened with each word that he spoke, and France could tell how much Austria loved her. He understood in that moment why Austria had been so nasty to him. Sure, he was still upset about Silesia, but he seemed to have a more special bond with Marie Antoinette than Nations normally had with their royal families. He probably felt like France was stealing her from him as well. France's own heart sank, and he smiled sympathetically at Austria, vowing to be better towards him now that he understood. "Your court already hates her," Austria continued. "They’re going to think she’s weak and they’re going to tear her apart with their intrigue and their rumors and their pettiness. But she’s not weak, and I will not see her ruined by them. Don’t let them destroy her. Okay? Don’t let them turn her bitter and jaded."

"I won’t, Austria."

"Promise me you won’t let anything happen to her."

"I promise-"

"Promise me you’ll take care of her."

"I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some History Notes:
> 
> I use a combination of English titles (Your Majesty, Your Highness, Your Excellency, etc.) and French titles (Monsieur le Duc/Madame la Duchesse, etc.) because I can't keep all the official hierarchial names right in my head. What I mean is that The King was Your Majesty to everyone, and I think the Queen was Madame to everyone. But then the Comte de Provence can be called just Monsieur (reliably, with all knowing who is meant) with a capital 'M' because he's the Premier Prince of the Blood, but his wife is not simply Madame, she is Madame la Comtesse de Provence because the Queen is Madame. I tried to sort it out and I couldn't haha. The Princess de Lamballe is NOT a 'Your Highness' in the French hierarchy but I couldn't figure out 'who she was' in the hierarchy, so to speak.
> 
> Despite discussions of potentially having the coronation in Paris, due to Louis's indecisiveness and the influence of strict traditionalists in his circle it ended up staying in Reims and became this hugely expensive deal for everyone involved. I punctuated the ceremony, but there is almost a play-by-play record from one of the nobles in attendance. If you care to read it, here's the link: http://www.pitt.edu/~syd/L16.html
> 
> Marie Antoinette came to the French court as a fourteen year old girl and almost immediately she was disliked for being Austrian despite her works of charity and her open, loving heart. Unfortunately, her education in all matters (social, political, academic, etc.) was pretty atrocious in comparison to her peers and contemporaries. Plus, the lifestyle of the French was drastically different than what she was used to, and often times she would go about her days with the temperament and activities she possessed naturally, blithely unaware of the social implications. On top of that, she was pressured to produce an heir to the French throne by everyone around her. Her mother Maria Teresa would berate her, question her beauty and wiles, and question her ability to arouse Louis through constant onslaughts of letters. Count Mercy-Argenteau would also pressure her because Maria Teresa would throw some heat down on him. Her and Louis's inability to consummate their marriage becomes a major, major issue to the court. It honestly wasn't her fault but she bore the brunt of it.
> 
> As always, leave a comment if you have the time. This chapter was not in the original, so let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

********_June 28th, 1775  
_ _Le Château de Versailles  
_ _King's Apartments_

France turned America's letter over in his hand and read it again, for what was probably the hundredth time since he received it back in May.

_April 22, 1775_

_Francey-Pants,_

_Hi, buddy! How are you? Hope you’re well! You know I'm impatient so I’m gonna skip the small talk and get right into the good stuff. It's your regular 'I Hate Britain' update! Wait until you hear this nonsense. You'll feel scandalized for a good while, I promise._

In the first paragraph alone, America hit both of France's pain points: Britain and gossip. They had their desired effect on him, too. The first time France read the letter he couldn't stop a giddy, childish kind of excitement from surging in his heart. He had curled over the paper, eager to read the rest and soak up the dirty scandal.

_Finally -_ _finally_ _! Britain's in deep shit now. Not sure if any word will reach you yet by the time you read this, but his soldiers actually shot at me and my militia in Lexington two days ago. The massacre at Boston was already inexcusable, but now that even more violence has broken out, I finally have all that I need to organize against him with outward public support!_

America's excitement practically bubbled out of the paper. The kid probably zoomed around his room while writing it. Ever since he was little, America was always passionate and excitable, noble and defiant against the good and the bad parts of British rule. France gleefully watched his relationship with Britain deteriorate over the years and years that America aged like it was a comedy, and with this last misstep on Britain's part all America had to do now was make a show of pointing the finger.

_He's really pissing me off now. And you're the only one I can talk to about it, too! Nobody else hates him as publicly as you do. And, even if they do, they're too scared of him to say anything._

_He’s never even here half the time! He pretty much missed my entire life. You know, I’ve got a human friend with a gambling problem and it reminds me of that. Only coming around to beg for money or favors. So why does he get to decide what I do and how I do it? Why does his King get to tell my citizens what to do? I’m not a child anymore, and my people aren’t animals to be herded around. We want to be free, and we should be._

_Human souls aren’t born as property for monarchs to own. They have value, each and every one. They deserve the right to live how they want and pursue what they want and be governed how they want, with fair representation. Free of Britain’s tyranny. They deserve justice and equality. I’m done being scared of him. I’m done being trampled and used, and I'm done lining his pockets. I'm done being controlled._

_I’m gonna kick his butt so hard he won’t even remember landing on these shores. I’m gonna open up a jar of whoop-ass and me and my militia are gonna stomp him into the ground. Just wait until you see it. The ‘greatest military on earth’ is about to be beaten by their own untrained colonials._

France fell out of his chair the first time he read it. America was considering all-out war. _War_. With _Britain_. And he even seemed excited about it, missing the bigger picture in the way that children did. Of course America had a naïve, idealistic view of war that came with the inexperience of youth. He'd never fought before, and he probably pictured himself the hero, charging in to defend himself and his citizens from the Britain's 'tyranny', as he called it.

He probably wasn't conceptualizing the fact that people _died_ in war, and died brutally. And he probably didn’t yet understand how badly wars affected Nations and how badly wars physically hurt. And for that matter, he was probably strategically ignoring the fact that he'd be utterly demolished by Britain's sheer might and manpower.

France suspected that he was the first to know about America's planned response: all out warfare.

_I’ve been doing some reading - Montesquieu, Rousseau, Voltaire, all those guys. All of them were French, right? They wrote their ideas while they were living under your absolute monarchy. So you must agree with them, right?_

Absolutely not, France snorted. Those words were radical at best and downright treasonous at worst, and they had been censored when they were new. He could never support the overthrow of another monarch without incriminating himself against his own.

_I was hoping you would agree with me. There’s really no tactful way to say this, so I'll just say it. But i was hoping that maybe, just maybe, you could help a friend out?_

_Want the chance to really sock it to Britain? Want a piece of the action, and a chance to shut him up? Come on, France! I know how much you hate Britain! In exchange for a few fleets I’ve got a lot to offer! We could be new trade buddies and kick him out! I can stop paying his tariffs. I’ve got tobacco, cotton, lumber, whale oil, and lots of stuff._

_Send some troops, too! Of course, we can handle it with our great commanders, but-_

That was a lie. America was too proud to casually ask for help. He was scared.

_-but some extra help couldn’t hurt. I’m sending a diplomat named Silas Deane to ask your new King about it._

_Oh! Congrats on the new King, by the way! I hope he does a lot of good for France!_

_If you can’t help I completely understand. I’m sure I can do this on my own. But talk to your boss about it, ok?_

_Au Revoir (Did I spell that right?)_

_Alfred F. Jones_

_(Soon to Not Be) British America_

France's immediate thought was to tell someone about the news. America was going to _war._ War against _Britain_. He wanted to spread it as the latest gossip, get the whole of Versailles whispering in a campaign that would secretly pray for Britain's humiliation. Anything that would weaken that bastard’s hold on the rest of the world was to be celebrated. But the more he considered the odds, the less enthusiastic he became. America, a small collection of British colonies, was about to go to _war_ against the largest and most well-trained fighting force in the world. It would not end well for poor America, and the thought of bright-eyed, awe-struck and idealistic America destroyed and disheartened and wounded in every way by the desolation of war only made France upset. He threw the letter aside with a sigh, resolving to be the first to tell Louis that someone from America was coming to discuss involvement in their revolt. He didn’t want anyone else pressing their opinions on Louis in any way before France had the chance to encourage him to think on it for himself.

He picked up the next few papers and unfolded them. They were two different pamphlets from the civilian newspapers that he asked for, that reviewed Louis and Marie’s coronation ceremony. The first was printed in the Versailles town.

_"The entire affair, in my eyes,"_ the author wrote, " _reeked of vulgarity in the highest degree. Gone was the reverence to Notre-Dame de Reims; gone was the reverence to the sanctity of the Sacraments during Mass and the purity of the quiet and humble union between King and Country. The young monarchs clearly intended upon the ceremony being a spectacle, something to behold. It certainly was. Every turn in the church and every gold brocade in the corners drew the eye away from the attentions of the ceremony and toward the decorations, much in the way an opera does: color and opulence and costume swallowing any illusion of real life and asserting that it was only an exaggerated interpretation. The only consolation to me was the inclusion of the normal vows and insistences made by His and Her Majesties. The usual promises to uphold the country and its people were made, and were made in their usual ways."_

The author was clearly a traditionalist, and had echoed all of the thoughts that France had the day of the coronation. Louis and Marie had turned his favorite ceremony into a farce, and apparently some agreed with him. The next opinion that he read came from an entirely different perspective. A paper from Paris.

_"The progressiveness that we hoped would be the tone of King Louis XVI’s reign was nonexistent during the entire ceremony. From the unnecessary frivolity of the royal litter to the diamonds encrusted in the royal couple’s outfits to the outrageous decorations_ _, Notre-Dame de Reims was swallowed by the pomp and tradition that plagued the court of Versailles for an entire century._

_His Majesty also felt it prudent to continue the inclusion of the vowed line about the expunging of heretics - whatever happened to Louis XVI’s message of inclusion and tolerance? He maintained that detail, but conveniently managed to leave out the line wherein he asks the people for their tacit permission to accept him as monarch. While we understand it is performative at best, it is nonetheless an inclusion of his subjects that went ignored. It does not endear him to his subjects, and does not bode well."_

Oh well, France huffed. You truly couldn’t please everyone. France knew that best of all being in the position he was in. Someone was always judging and someone else was always misjudging. What one liked, another did not. What one thought best, another thought worst. France simply did his best to work both sides of conflict and advise his kings only on what he thought best for his nation. He could only hope that the polarization of opinions wasn’t too severe this early in Louis’s reign, but upon consideration he didn't think that it was. Those kinds of things tore Nations apart from the inside out, and he wasn’t feeling particularly torn.

France took his time folding up the two commentaries so they remained free of creases. He felt obliged to keep them, in the name of sentimentality. Two, maybe three hundred years from then when he was reminiscing, perhaps he'd ask himself, 'Wonder what all the people thought about Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette's coronation.' If he kept the papers, he'd always be able to look back on it and remember. Sometimes it was fun to check and see if his opinions changed with history, but most of the time they didn't. He knew what he liked and he knew what he valued, and that consistency served him well throughout his long life.

He stood from his perched position on the side of his bed. He lifted his arms over his head and arched his back, stretching as far as he could with a satisfied groan. An ungodly _pop_ resonated from somewhere on his spine, and a mildly uncomfortable ache crept into his muscles. France winced and massaged his back below his vest.

"Uuuugh, don't ever get old, America," he muttered rhetorically, looking to the letter as though America would hear him. Old, he snorted. Old in comparison, of course. He wasn't _old_. China was old. Japan and Turkey were old. He wasn't old.

He thought about where to put the papers. The chest at the foot of his bed was always an option, but France preferred to keep only the most important things in there. These commentaries were hardly at the caliber of Jeanne d'Arc's journal, or historical peace treaties. France threw his pastel green coat with gold brocade over his green vest and instead took the letters into his drawing room.

His bedchamber and his drawing room were the only two rooms in Louis’s apartments, and in the entirety of Versailles, that France claimed as his own. Both were lavishly furnished to his expensive and keen tastes. Under Louis XIV, France had several of the panels on the walls in his bedchamber replaced with mirrors simply because he loved looking at himself from every angle to make sure everything about his appearance was in tact. And then he had commissioned a massive fireplace against the left wall under Louis XV. He had white marble imported for the face of it, and the legs he requested a beige marble speckled in gold and brown. The legs were intricately carved with _fleurs-de-lys_ , wreathes and flowers, and he had roses carved into the front edge of the mantle. A portrait that France commissioned in an elaborate gold frame hung above the mantle, and in it _le Roi Soleil_ sat upon a throne in full regal dress, looking proudly to the distance with France standing behind him with one hand on his shoulder. He had no trouble asking Louis XIV to pose with him. As long as he was portrayed in a position of power, _le Roi Soleil_ would have posed for anything. The other walls in his bedchamber held an eclectic mix of his favorite paintings (some of France himself), drawings, maps, busts, framed letters, ancient swords, and other memorabilia from his long life. The head of his four poster bed sat against the right hand wall, and a single massive gold rug with many colored flowers that France bought off of _le Roi Soleil_ before he died covered most of the floor. A single flowered settee and armchair were positioned in front of the fireplace, and he had a mahogany armoire and wardrobe with gilded decorations on the legs, corners, and handles. His drawing room, one room over, was lined almost wall to wall with shelves, cabinets, and stands where he kept most of his books and small knick-knacks that he wanted to display. The only exception to the shelves was a wall of windows to let in the natural light. He had another sitting area on a rug in the center of the room, and a desk in the far corner where he did most of his work.

France traveled to one of the bookshelves and slipped the two commentaries between the spines of two nondescript books, with intention of forgetting they were there and rediscovering them later. Still on his desk where he left them were the papers and the half-full wine glass he abandoned the night before. He had a late night, only remembering that he was supposed to have them done after midnight. He stayed up for as long as he could drawing them up until he fell asleep at the desk and forced himself to go to bed. Now they taunted him, with their evil white complexions. The last one he had been working on remained unfinished, blatantly obvious when compared to the other pages full of France's meticulously perfect handwriting. He had half a mind to sit down and finish them, but checked the clock. He only had about twenty minutes before his meeting with Louis. Not enough time for the entire page to dry even if he tried to hurry through it. He left it as it was in its state of disarray, but gathered up all of the papers and jogged them against the table until they were in a nice, pristine stack.

He grabbed the wine glass off the desk and threw the rest of the drink back, grimacing against its old, stale, flat taste, and made for the door to Louis's apartments. He placed his hand on the door handle when it swung inwards, forcing him to jump back to avoid being struck. The footmen who opened the doors held them open for a messenger who calmly strolled through the threshold of France's drawing room. He cleared his throat loudly.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy, Monsieur le Comte de Mercy-Argentou requests an audience with you immediately."

"With me? Well, ah, now?" France stammered, still a bit shocked by the near-miss of the doors. "I offer my sincerest apologies, but I regret to inform Monsieur le Comte that I am currently unavailable." He couldn't fathom a reason why the Comte de Mercy-Argentou would want to talk to him. The only interactions France had with the man had been when he spoke to Marie-Antoinette and the Comte happened to be there in the room. Which, France recalled, he usually was. He barely left Marie's side and she seemed to take comfort in his presence for the most part.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but Monsieur le Comte insists upon its urgency."

"Ah, well, my _deepest regrets_ to Monsieur le Comte," France emphasized, leaning slightly forward to drive the point home. "I am on my way to a meeting with His Majesty. I must insist that it wait until after that meeting, when my schedule frees considerably."

"Monsieur le Comte wishes for me to tell you that this matter is one that he hopes you will take to His Majesty after you meet with him. He requests that you meet with him now. He stresses its importance."

Not wanting to agree, but unable to think of a polite enough reason to say no, France checked the clock on the shelves behind him and shook his head. "Fine. I will await Monsieur le Comte here, in my drawing room. Will you relay to him that if he makes me late for my meeting with Louis that I will be very displeased?"

"He is right outside the door, Monsieur. He is ready at this moment."

"Fiiiine," France sighed loudly, hoping Monsieur le Comte heard him through the open door. "Send him in, then, if you must."

Florimond Claude, the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, didn’t wait for the messenger to fetch him. He wheeled around the corner and bowed to France, his face set in a stern frown. He always looked displeased, every time France saw him.

"Come in," France said, moving aside so the man could get past him. "I don’t mean to be rude but please make it quick. I have fifteen minutes until I have to meet the King."

"It will be brief, I assure you," the Comte groused. He paraded past France and ignored the usual protocol and pleasantries, as Austrians tended to do. Austria himself was the same way. Business was business, no more and no less. France noticed that the Comte even seemed to mimic Austria’s dainty yet harsh body language since they both had the same slight frame. He kept his sharp, clefted chin in the air, and his long, long nose helped him maintain a haughty appearance. His frown sank the corners of his mouth, but his rounded eyebrows, in contrast, made his eyes appear kind and unburdened. "You and I do not know each other well, so I apologize for my lack of formality. While I would love a proper introduction and to receive you under normal circumstances, these are by no means normal circumstances. I also apologize for the sensitivity of the matter I am about to address-"

"Brief," France reminded him, hoping the Comte would appreciate the frankness based on the content of his preamble. For good measure, France looked at the clock behind him (thirteen minutes left), and spun his finger in the air to signal his impatience.

"Of course," the Comte nodded. "Consider this State business. I act as a proxy for all Austrian parties involved in this matter: Empress Maria Theresa and the Austrian court, for Austria himself, and for Marie-Antoinette. All have expressed their concerns over Louis's lack of ability to consummate his marriage."

"Ah," France grumbled, recalling Austria's letter. "This again."

The Comte tilted his head and his eyes narrowed, assuming France was trivializing the issue. "Yes. We mean no disrespect toward His Majesty, but it is to our mutual benefit that this situation be rectified as soon as possible."

"I completely agree," France replied. "The alliance I forged with Austria depends upon an heir to cement it." He wanted to avoid a lecture from Austria himself via his letter, and then from Austria's mouthpiece in Versailles, so he hoped to beat the Comte to it. "That's not to mention that the marriage can be annuled without it, and that's not to mention the projection of strength that an heir displays. The royal couple need to appear strong together to make France look strong." He purposefully lumped Louis and Marie together as ‘the royal couple’ to avoid accepting full responsibility on Louis’s behalf, even though he had no idea what the issue was in Louis and Marie’s marriage bed or whose fault it was. But apparently it was bad enough to warrant complaints.

Something small in the back of his mind warned him that he should be terrified of the problem. A picture entered France’s mind of Louis dying childless, and Marie unable to run the country herself due to his patriarchal laws. Who would be next, then? The Comte de Provence, and d'Artois after him. And then Duc d’Orléans, as the premier Prince of the Blood. France felt all the color drain from his face at the thought of the Duc. There were two people before him, sure, but that very situation happened to Louis XVI's father and his older brother, so it wasn't out of the question. A deep-rooted, self-preserving kind of National fear squeezed around his heart, already sure that the Duc would be disastrous. That would be the worst case scenario for France. The Duc already hated him and wouldn’t hesitate to kick him out of the High Court and exclude him from any and all administrative efforts.

“Yes,” the Comte agreed, and France quickly made sure to clear his face of any fear or concern. “And, admittedly, that is not all. It is beginning to affect her reputation.” France successfully slipped the comment about the royal couple past the Comte. “The libelles and pamphlets slander her constantly - and His Majesty, too.”

France already knew that. The pamphlets had been slandering Louis ever since his marriage to an Austrian was secured. “Lucky for you, Austria already made his fears known very well. I have already added this . . . issue to my itinerary for Louis.” France adjusted the papers tucked under his arm, hopefully hiding the incomplete one with his elbow.

“Excellent,” the Comte sighed. “Thank you.” His shoulders slumped, visibly relieved, and France wondered just how much heat Austria threw down on the Comte, and how much heat Maria Theresa herself threw down on him too. No doubt Marie-Antoinette complained too. If Austria was as smitten by her as France suspected during the coronation after party, then Austria would catch a shooting star for her if she asked.

“I also apologize if this puts you in an uncomfortable position,” the Comte soothed. This discussion may not be easy for you to have with His Majesty-“

France barked out a laugh. “Oh, my dear Comte,” he hummed, tilting his head and staring into the Comte’s eyes. He let a coy smile cross his cheeks and winked. “You really don’t know me very well.” The Comte didn’t know how often France indulged himself in the art of seduction, and he also didn’t know how often France brought it up in any given day, either to boast about his conquests or to embarrass others who didn’t like to talk about it. It was one of his favorite ways to mess with Britain. He could talk to Louis about it, without question. “I assure you that you’ve placed this matter in the most capable hands in Versailles!”

His display of confidence worked. The Comte smiled, nodding his surety, and France carefully tucked away his fear. The Comte didn’t need to know how alarmed he was. Was Louis too short-sighted, or too ill-advised to understand what an heir meant to the stability of the monarchy? Or worse, was Louis impotent?

He had to know as soon as possible so he could work on fixing it.

“I will talk to His Majesty today, Monsieur,” France assured him with a small bow to signal the end of the discussion.

“Thank you,” he said again. “And in the name of fairness, I will also talk to Antonia.” France blinked in surprise and smiled, not expecting the concession. He took the whole meeting as an acknowledgment that Louis was in trouble, but from that comment alone the Comte seemed to genuinely care about engaging and solving the problem rather than blaming Louis and dumping it on France’s plate only to check back in later. “I care about her and I care about the stability of France and our alliance.” His eyes brightened with sincerity, and France could tell he was telling the truth.

“Thank you!” France said. “I really appreciate your passion and concern.” He checked the clock again. Five minutes to go. “I’m free most afternoons for a few hours. Let’s get together for coffee or something one day. I’d love to become more acquainted.” The Comte seemed genuinely kind, and the human part of France that craved relationships was excited by the prospect of a passionate friend and ally. The diplomat and the Nation in France was comforted by keeping a tattletale close to monitor and control the things he was able to tattle to Austria.

“Likewise,” the Comte smiled, delighted by the flattery. “I’ll call on you.” He turned and left with a bow and without another word, and France waited until he was safely away to leave for Louis’s conference room.

He was expected, so the footmen waved him in without stopping him at the door, but Louis wasn’t in the room yet. France waited patiently for as long as he thought reasonable, checking the clock every ten minutes or so until forty-five minutes passed.

At first he made a conscious effort to keep his anger in check. Louis XV was chronically late, and it took a period of adjustment for France after Louis XIV’s maddening punctuality. But after a while each tick of the clock grated against his nerves, igniting his rage in increments, and after a pathetically shirt amount of time he was pacing and stamping his foot.

This was the second time Louis XVI kept him waiting on official business. If that was the kind of reputation Louis wanted to maintain then it was entire his prerogative, but some notice - any notice - would have sufficed.

Louis’s next scheduled meeting arrived, clamoring into the council chamber, and they were clearly confused to see France alone. He greeted them with a nod.

“Late?” one of them asked, and France nodded with a roll of his eyes.

“I’ll find him,” he said. “He’s probably somewhere in these apartments.”

He didn’t have to look far. He found Louis a few rooms over in his study, bent over his desk and fiddling with something in his hands.

“Your Majesty?” France asked softly, and Louis looked up with a jolt.

“Oh! France?” He asked, squinting up at him. Realization dawned on him and his eyes widened. He whirled around to inspect the many watches he had installed in a display case behind him. “Is it really 12:00?” he asked, shoulders slumping. Our meeting. I got so caught up in this little project that I lost track of time. Come look,” Louis said, standing from his desk and gesturing to it.

He didn’t say sorry, France noted as he crossed the floor. He peered down at a huge padlock, entirely disassembled on Louis’s desk. Even the locking mechanism and all the pins were apart, in very neat piles on the wood, and the locking bar that held the arms of the lock was laid bare. The casing had been broken open.

“I was working on putting this back together after I modified the pins to make it harder to open. You see, you’ll have to push down at the same time you twist the key in order for it to catch the pins since I shaved one of them down - you see? But I can’t quite get it back together. It’s puzzling me. Just a simple lock, and I’ve done hundreds of deconstructions, and yet this one just won’t work. I think I may have broken the casing if I’m honest, but . . .”

Any other day, France would have loved to know all about what Louis was doing. But now he was severely behind schedule.

“That’s unfortunate,” France said, unsure of what else to say. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. In the meantime, we’re really, _really_ behind schedule and I’ve got some things for you to sign, and some things to discuss.”

Louis’s face fell, but it could’ve been at the prospect of work and not at France’s disinterest in his passions. France held out the stack of papers and placed them on the edge of the desk. He held them there, expecting Louis to move the bits of the lock away so he could put them in front of him. He didn’t. He simply sat back down and held his hand out for France to hand him the first one.

“Oh. Um, so this first one is for-“

Louis took the pen from its ink well, dipped it, and leaned far over the lock to sign it on the bare strip of desk above it.

“Don’t you want to look it over? See what it is?”

Louis was already picking up the pieces of the lock and his tools, back at putting the lock together.

“Okay. This one,” he said, not handing it over until he explained it, “is from Messieurs Vergennes and Maurepas, and it regards an official tariff on specific British imports. It also extends the usual embargoes and sanctions.”

He hoped Louis would ask which imports. In particular, he hoped Louis would ask about tariffs on imported grain since they were in such short supply in France. It would’ve told France that Louis paid attention during the last update and was thinking critically about some of the issues France was bringing to his attention.

Louis instead accepted the document wordlessly and signed it. Picked up the lock pieces.

“This one is for . . . “ France began, pulling the next from the stack. He hesitated. It was the half-done one, with the bottom half of the page glaring threateningly at him.

Louis glanced up, waiting for France to finish. So he was listening, at least, but his hands never stopped.

“It’s . . . “ Maybe he wouldn’t notice. “ . . . Another request from Messieurs Vergennes and Maurepas to send more ships to the West Indies so that we can continue seizing British ships and setting up distant blockades to intercept all British ships going in and out.”

France placed it in Louis’s outstretched hand. He took up his pen and touched it to the bottom of the paper, in the middle of the emptiness. Paused.

“This is unfinished.”

_Merde_. “Yes, it is. Apologies, Majesty. I drew up the first document from Vergennes and Maurepas and thought I was done. I forgot about it until last night, and I began it last night but got stuck trying to remember the official number of ships Vergennes told me he was requesting. And by then I was halfway through wine glass number two, and trying to do anything after that is hit or miss - know what I mean?”

“Sometimes I feel that way,” Louis said. “Sometimes I feel that I’m done for the night and can’t bring myself to complete anything else. Other times I won’t even make it to her because I’m so invested in something I can’t stop. Like this lock. I probably won’t rest until I figure it out.”

No sleeping with Marie-Antoinette, then.

“Not me,” France said, putting a subtle point into his words. “I know when it’s time for work and when it’s time for 'play'," he emphasized. He sent Louis a smirk, and Louis chuckled. “I’ll finish it later, if you want to sign it. If not, I’ll send the draft to Vergennes and Maurepas with a rejection.”

Louis took up the pen and signed it without a word of consideration.

“Just a minute, Your Majesty, we’re not finished yet.” France slipped another few papers in front of him, between Louis’s face and the lock pieces in his hands. “I need you to sign this, too.” France saw the beginnings of annoyance flick across Louis’s face and body language. The sharper stroke on the flourish that dug into the late, the clenching of his left hand around the tools. The distant look that said he was miles away in a different world, mapping out the lock in his head.

Louis audibly sighed and dropped the lock. “How many more?” he whined.

“I know this is tedious,” France prompted softly, declining to answer the question directly, "but once all of these are settled, you'll be free to do what you want." Gentle coercing usually worked for Louis.

"What's the next one, then?"

"It's an order for the next round of conscriptions of the Third Estate into the _corvée_ , to help maintain the streets of our cities."

Louis's face curled up in disgust at the horrible, world-ending thought of signing something else, but he did as he was told. He went for the lock again.

"Now - hold on! Don't drop that pen!"

"France, please! I desperately want to figure out this lock. Can we please do this later?"

Louis could do whatever he wanted, but he always seemed to forget that all it would take was a single word, and France would be forced to leave him. France wasn't about to remind him of his power.

"We're almost done! Come on, it's the last one! Work with me here! This one is-"

Louis snatched the paper away from him, crumpling it all up, and didn't even look at it. He scrawled a hasty 'Louis' at the bottom, as quickly and as messily as possible, and handed it back, glaring his irritation at France's feet. Not angry, but annoyed. Like a child told he could only go play if he finished his chores. France returned the glare to Louis' face and tried to convey 'For a 20 year old you're being a brat,' and 'I'm getting sick of dealing with you,' simultaneously. Louis, of course, missed it since he wouldn't raise his eyes above France's knees. In a bout of super-human control, France dropped the face and maintained his composure, smoothing the paper, and his last nerve, into a less frayed state.

"Is that all?" Louis asked.

"Actually, there's one more thing - but all you have to do is listen!" France added quickly to placate the curl of Louis's lip that he cast to the lock in his hands. "The Comte de Mercy-Argentou-"

"Who?"

"The Viennese ambassador to Versailles. Marie-Antoinette's advisor? Been here since 1766?"

Louis shrugged. France sighed, but continued to his point. "Well, anyway, I talked to him today. He told me that Maria Theresa and Austria and . . . " He almost added Marie-Antoinette into the list, but he didn't want to implicate Marie by implying that she was talking about him behind his back. " . . . and the Austrian court are concerned about a certain issue that falls to your responsibility. Now, I know things are still confusing and you're still adjusting and what not. But you and Marie have been married for four years now. So don't you think it's time for you to start thinking about putting the sword in the sheath, if you get my meaning?"

Louis paused in his lock-building long enough to shoot France a completely confused look. "What?"

"You know," France tried again, "Threading the needle? If you know what I mean?"

"No, I don't think I do," Louis said hesitantly.

"Putting the baguette in the oven?"

" . . . "

"You know, _fitting the key in the lock_?" He tried an analogy Louis might understand. He was grasping at straws, and Louis obviously didn't understand. "Oh, _Mon Dieu_!" France finally gave up. "Have you had sex with your wife yet?" he blurted out.

Louis fumbled heavily with the lock and paled so quickly France thought Louis would be sick.

"Louis?" he asked nervously, worried his King was having a heart attack right in front of him. "Are you okay?" Louis nodded slowly. "What's wrong?"

Louis' face abruptly went from white to red. His eyebrows furrowed and he leaned further over the lock, working with a furious new vigor in an attempt to look distracted. It was the same kind of color Louis's face took on when he placed the ring around Marie's finger at their wedding ceremony. And it was the same kind of red-faced mortification that he displayed the night of their wedding, when they were revealed together in the marriage bed. He wouldn't look anybody in the eye. Not the Archbishop of Reims, who blessed the bed, not France himself, not his new wife, and not even Louis XV, his beloved grandfather. France knew what was wrong. Louis was shy about love.

Love, which was France's element!

"Oh! Are you two having a bit of trouble lighting each other's fireworks, hm? Well, you've come to the right man!" he said excitedly, forgetting he brought it up to Louis in the first place. He ran across the room, grabbed the back of a chair and dragged it over next to Louis. He flipped it around with one hand and straddled it, leaning his elbows on the backrest. "So, Louis - I can call you Louis, right?" Louis squeaked out an inarticulate affirmation, and France ran with it. "Great! Where's the hold-up for you? Is it the foreplay? Is she doing something you're not into? What does she do?"

"W-well, she . . . we . . . nothing."

"Nothing?" France shrieked. "What do you mean 'nothing'?"

"I don't know! We just . . . do what we're supposed to do!" he finished vaguely.

"Well _that's_ why there's no magic!" France said, assuming there just wasn't any passion involved. "You two've gotta do _something_ before you get down and dirty! How else do you two get in the mood? You can't just go in there all cold and emotionless and . . . dry. The friction alone would be - ugh!"

"I don't . . . know-"

"You should ask her to try things out next time! Do you like a stronger presence from her? Put her in control. Let her give you the orders instead of the other way around. I tell you what, I once met a woman in a brothel who liked tying my arms to the bedposts and climbing on top. Mm! It was fantastic!"

"France, please. I-I don't know what-"

"Okay, okay, that was a little extreme. I can tell just from interacting with you that you're more of a calm, practical presence in the bedroom," France purred, smirking wildly at Louis. "Being able to read people so well, and being able to figure out what they like, is something I've learned over years and years of practice. Whatever turns you on, just ask her to partake, too! I bet you like," he trailed off to think. "Hmm . . . "

"Don't guess," Louis huffed. "It's none of your business. Besides, I'm not sure that we . . . know each other well enough for that-"

"No problem, no problem!" France insisted. "You should both just get drunk together, then, if you're too shy to ask! Man or woman, royal or peasant, beautiful or plain, it doesn't matter. No one is immune to the sweet liberation that too much alcohol provides. It really loosens all the knots."

"I don't think-"

"You don't have to think! Once you're both drunk all it takes is one really nice compliment! Charm her! You know what she likes, so use what she likes to get her to like you! Be the ideal lover. Make her feel lofty and and great, lauded above all others! Make her feel like she's special! Do you love her? When you really love someone, it isn't hard," France babbled with a small smile. "The words will tumble from your heart straight out through your mouth. You won't even have to think about what to say. _L'amour_ will take care of it for you!" He clasped his hands under his chin and sighed, resting his cheek against the back of the chair. "If the moment is right, it's like . . . like poetry," he said, softening up his voice. "You'll say things you didn't even know you felt. And they'll be true, and they'll be raw, and all of a sudden, the room fades out. Picture it: there's one light around you, and it's focused on her." France closed his eyes, as he hoped Louis was. "The light illuminates her face, her eyes, beautiful and blue, her golden hair, her body. You love her. She loves you." France opened his eyes and was surprised to see he had Louis's attention. For a moment. "That will lead to the kissing."

Louis rolled his eyes like a defiant teen and turned his attention to the lock. France didn't care. He was on a beautiful, passion-fueled tangent, and he wasn't about to get off of it.

"Your lips will press together," he whispered. "Softly, hesitantly, but filled with passion. She is yours, and yours alone. As you both get comfortable, passion will turn to desire. She will be all you know. All you see. All you want. Everything you could ever want will be fulfilled by holding her in your arms and never letting her go. It's a fire! It'll burn through your whole body! But especially the 'bayonet'!" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Louis missed that too, focusing way too intently on the lock in his hands. "What does that even-"

"By then the mood has been set! One thing will lead to another! Pretty soon you'll be clawing at each other's clothes, and she'll be all over you and-"

"Got it!" Louis cried triumphantly, snapping the arm of the lock closed. He held it out triumphantly, showing the completed lock to France.

"I'm trying to give you advice, here! Having an heir is a really important part of regency. It would secure our alliance with Austria and secure Marie's position here, and seal any power vacuums later. And it would also project the strength of your monarchy and your country! Which is me. And you're talking to a love expert right now! I taught your grandfather everything he knew, and Louis XV was practically known as a Casanova. So you should be taking notes or something, especially if this is a problem-"

"I didn't even understand half of those euphemisms! And you didn't even describe anything! Look," he said again, shaking the lock in front of France's face. "I finally got it!"

"I know! I can see that! Alright, alright." He pushed the lock back towards Louis. "Can you at least promise me that you're trying to conceive a child with Marie-Antoinette? Are you healthy? Everything work?" France roved his eyes down Louis's body and inclined his head to stare between his legs, then looked back up into his face.

"I would much rather have that discussion with my doctor than with you, but yes. I'm fine. And I am laying with my wife."

"Okay. I'm gonna stop bothering you about it today, but just know that this issue won't be over until you two . . . fix this, I guess." He winced at his own verbiage, but shook his head. "There's just one more thing I need to tell you about, before we call this little meeting. I received a letter from America today. America the Nation. I think - and don't quote me on this - but I think he's planning to go to war against Britain."

Louis's head snapped to the side to stare at France, open-mouthed. "Really? America? Those thirteen tiny colonies are going to go to _war_? Against _Britain_?"

France nodded hard. "That's exactly the reaction I had!"

"What kind of forces are they even going to mount? Farmers with pitchforks?" he snorted.

"I know, right? But apparently America thinks they can win. He's sending a man by the name of Silas Deane over our way to meet with Messieurs Vergennes and Maurepas, and probably the Comte de Ségur since he's your minister of war to discuss potential French aid."

"Aid in what form?" Louis asked.

"I don't know yet. America vaguely mentioned a fleet or two, and maybe some troops, but I'm not sure exactly. Silas Deane probably has more information, so I'm going to talk to Vergennes and find out when they're going to meet. I'd like to sit in on the meeting. I wanted to be the first one to tell you so that you could know ahead of time, and maybe start to make an opinion. Knee-jerk reaction?" France asked, and to his surprise, Louis answered quickly.

"Absolutely not. There's not a chance in the world that America will win against Britain. They'll be crushed, and I'm not about to agree to send aid to a losing cause. And besides, how would that look if I upheld the right of another country to overthrow their monarch? But what do you think?" Louis asked, in case that wasn't the right thing to say. "As a Nation, what do you think?"

Everything within France Nationally was telling him no, and it manifested as an intense feeling of emptiness that he associated with not having the funds on-hand to be able to manage it. It was easy to see the positives of the situation, but he gave Louis his opinions. "We can't manage it right now, both monetarily and morally. We just don't have the money to spare, and I agree with you about the overthrow of a monarch. That's a dangerous slope for other countries around the world. What if our colonies in the Indies try it on us next? I do think there are many advantages for us should America actually win. I think it would weaken Britain while they continuously send troops and supplies to the colonies. I think we would have trading benefits with America, which would hurt British commerce. I think it would force Britain to remove their presence in the West Indies. And I think, and this is the most important part for me, I'd be able to hold it over Britain's head for the rest of _forever_ that he got his ass handed to him by little America! But are all those worth betting on America, who doesn't have the first chance in hell of winning? No. Not at all. So that's what I think. I'll let you think on it some more. I'm hoping that by the time Vergennes reaches you with Deane's request, you'll have a quick and decisive answer for him."

"I think I can manage that," Louis said with finality, nodding his surety. "I doubt there is much that's going to change my mind. Although, I would like to hear Monsieur Vergennes's opinions. If only to see if he has anything else to add about foreign policy."

France nodded, but not before Louis caught his frown of disappointment. In return his eyebrows furrowed and he looked down, turning the finished lock in his hands.

"I don't have to talk to Vergennes, if you don't want me to-" Louis mumbled.

"No, no, I didn't mean that! I think it's always good to get others opinions!" France smoothed. "However, in your case, I also think that you shouldn't change your opinion just because one person strongly disagrees with you. That's why I'm telling you now. So you can do your own research on our resources and form your own decision. If you think you're in the right, then you stick to it. If you think you're wrong, then take more expert opinions and do what you need to do. I just need you to form your own opinion and stay strong on it. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes. Yes, I can."

France hoped he could, but based on the coronation flip-flop he wasn't entirely convinced. Still, he hoped Louis would make a change for this instance.

All he could do was wait for this Silas Deane to make his appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some History Notes:
> 
> Louis was incredibly smart! And he was passionate about specific things! He just . . . wasn't terribly passionate about running a country. Accounts of meetings report a notable number of instances where Louis seemed visibly bored and disinterested with the proceedings, and there were even a few reports of him falling asleep during meetings! He would have rather partook in his many hobbies and his real passions.
> 
> Louis and Marie's marriage remaining unconsummated is a HUGE PROBLEM for the country and will stay a huge problem for the country for seven years after their marriage! Maria Theresa threw TONS of heat down on Marie-Antoinette and the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, to the point where her letters to Marie-Antoinette are scathing and downright nasty. Marie's reputation seriously begins to suffer as a result.
> 
> America is going to start seeking French support for the Revolution soon, but France isn't entirely eager to lend support to him. They won't garner official support until 1777, after a decisive American victory over British regulars at Saratoga!
> 
> This chapter includes pieces of the old chapter 2! I modified America's letter, beefed up the part where France asks Louis about his marriage consummation, and I also added a brand new discussion with the Comte de Mercy-Argentou! Let me know how I did.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have the time! I love really long, drawn out ones, but then, I also love a 'good chapter'! Thanks so much for reading!  
> ~Keyblader


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